


Pearl of Great Price

by MostlyCharmless



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Mystery, Pastiche, Possible Blasphemy?, Romance, Slow Burn, Whatever I'm doing it anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:28:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21777559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostlyCharmless/pseuds/MostlyCharmless
Summary: When Margaret Gibbs is unexpectedly dismissed by her employer, she finds herself once again at the drawing board, wondering what she did wrong. And then a chance meeting with a certain Belgian detective sets her on a path littered with mystery and murder, changing both of their lives forever.
Relationships: Arthur Hastings & Hercule Poirot, Felicity Lemon & Hercule Poirot, Hercule Poirot/Original Female Character, James Japp & Hercule Poirot
Comments: 42
Kudos: 45





	1. When It Rains...

Sometimes I think that I must be one of the world's foremost suckers. For as long as I can remember, I've been breaking my back to please others and in the process have allowed them to walk all over me. First it was my parents' approval I craved. My mother and father were good people, but stern. They doled out praise with the same freewheeling generosity with which Ebenezer Scrooge wrote his employees' paychecks. In fairness to them, if they hadn't made me work so hard to win their favor, I would never have become the fanatical believer in dedication and hard work that I am today. All the same, I doubt a smile or a pat on the head would have spoiled me irrevocably.

When I was ten years old, my father died in an automobile accident, and my mother, unable to stick it as a widow, quickly attached herself to a man by the name of Harold Strucker. At first I had hopes that my new stepfather would be the kindly paternal figure that my natural father had not been; he had certainly been charming during his courtship with my mother. But almost immediately after they had married, the mask fell away. He proved to be one of those men to whom things like conscience and empathy are foreign concepts, and whose sole pleasure is preying on and terrorizing women. He made my mother's life such a horror that, at only forty-two years of age, she quietly passed away. The coroner said it was a brain aneurysm, but I think she might have simply given up.

Good Lord. This is starting to sound downright Dickensian. I don't mean to peddle sympathy or depress anyone. But I suppose I should issue some sort of disclaimer. This is not one of those frothy, lighthearted stories that have become so popular in the years following the War, so if that's what you're after, I suggest you pick up the latest by P.G. Wodehouse. That's not to say that I don't love a good Jeeves story.

After my mother died, my stepfather packed me off to a girls' boarding school in England, where I learned such useful skills as piano, embroidery, and balancing textbooks on my head. Meanwhile my stepfather happily spent my parents' money, drank copious amounts of alcohol, and died penniless in a Monte Carlo casino when I was eighteen. After my own modest inheritance was used to cover his debts and death duties, I graduated from school and was jettisoned into the harsh, unforgiving world outside. I was quickly forced to learn that if I wanted to continue living, I would have to work. And work I did. I was a nanny, a governess, a waitress, a cook. For two years I literally sang for my supper in a Soho nightclub, before anyone realized that I had no charisma or stage presence. One might say that I became, out of necessity, a Jill of all trades. Except, of course, my name is not Jill.

I was never ashamed of any of these professions, but I was aware of a certain lack of dignity in the way I was expected to comport myself in order to avoid starvation. Simply put, if one wishes to get anywhere in this world, one must not object to being a spineless lickspittle. However, that has never been one of my strengths.

I don't want you to get the impression that I'm a hothead; quite the contrary. Oh, the stories I could tell you — the indignities I have suffered at the grasping hands of sticky toddlers and dirty old men alike. I have allowed children and adults to fling food in my face, and then politely inquired if I could bring them something they'd like better. I have been screamed at by rich mothers, arrogant servants, and overworked managers. And I have borne it all with a cool, solicitous smile. After all, you can't just go around slapping people. It's not civilized.

But every woman has her breaking point, and my own has always been witnessing cruelty or injustice. You can say what you like about me, but if I see someone kicking a cat or pinching a five-pound note and blaming it on the scullery maid, I can no more keep silent about it than chew my own leg off. Thus my frequent career changes.

It was not until I got a job as a secretary that things began to look up. By sheer accident, I made the acquaintance of Florence Wainwright, the celebrated crime novelist. She was in need of an assistant, and she hired me on the spot. For five years I took dictation, managed her business affairs, and helped her in her research. I don't mind saying I was in awe of her. Not only was she wickedly funny, sharp as a whip, and full of stories about her remarkable life, but she was uncommonly kind. She never lost her temper or spoke down to me, and she often shared her ideas for future novels with me and asked my opinions. Her family, I regret to say, was not much to write home about and tended to treat me like a drudge, but Mrs. Wainwright made it all worth it.

That was why it was such a shock when she gave me the boot.

The morning began like any other. I walked — as I was not a live-in secretary — to the Underground station from my homely little flat in Lambeth and rode the train to Twickenham, the location of the Wainwright family estate. I was admitted by the old butler, Richards, who bade me a stiff but affectionate good morning, and went straight up to my employer's study to get everything ready for her.

To my surprise she was already there. She sat at her desk, fashionably dressed as always; though she was in her late sixties, her sense of style was superb. Not a strand of her snow-white hair was ever out of place.

"Good morning, Mrs. Wainwright," I greeted her cheerfully as I entered, carrying my leather attaché case under my arm. "I've got the final two chapters here, all typed up. Would you like to have a look at them before I get them sent off to your editor?"

She did not reply immediately. She sat very still, her thin hands clasped in front of her on the gleaming desk. "Be so good as to shut the door and have a seat, would you, Miss Gibbs?" she finally asked in an even voice.

I frowned involuntarily. Mrs. Wainwright never called me by my surname; she was far too informal for that. Nevertheless, I did as I was told. "Is something the matter, ma'am?" I asked as I seated myself in the chair in front of her desk.

She sighed. "Damn it all, this is so difficult," she said, to my consternation. With an impatient motion, she picked up an envelope I had noticed earlier and slid it across the desk toward me. "Here, take this. Money always makes things better, doesn't it?"

Feeling like an automaton, I leaned forward and took the envelope. "I don't understand," I said slowly, aware of a vague sense of dread. "What is this?"

"Three months' salary and a letter of recommendation. I'm very sorry, Miss Gibbs, but I'm going to have to let you go."

My heart gave a lurch in my chest. I tried to speak, but nothing came out. I swallowed hard and tried again. "You're dismissing me?"

Mrs. Wainwright made a pained grimace. "Oh, don't put it like that, it sounds so heartless."

I shook my head, still stunned. A million questions chased each other through my mind: What had I done wrong? Why did this keep happening to me? Would I ever feel safe and secure?

Clearing my throat with difficulty, I asked, "Has my work been unsatisfactory in some way?"

"Not a bit of it," Mrs. Wainwright said quickly, compounding my confusion. "Quite the opposite, in fact." She took a deep breath. "No, my dear, I assure you it has nothing to do with you. The fact is, I've decided that, after this last book of mine is published, I'm going to retire."

This brought me at least partially out of my daze. "Retire?" I repeated. "But why?"

Abruptly she stood up and began pacing the study, looking distrait. "There's really no point in fighting it any longer," she said, almost to herself. "I'm getting old. I try not to let it show, but this work takes a lot out of me. There's so much pressure to keep coming up with clever new plots and compelling characters. I fear I'm losing my touch."

As I listened, I couldn't keep myself from shaking my head. "Now there I must disagree with you, ma'am. I think this latest book might be your best one yet."

Mrs. Wainwright gave a wan smile. "You're very kind," she remarked a little sadly. "If that's true, then perhaps it's best that I should go out on a high note. I've always thought it was a mistake for Conan Doyle to resurrect Holmes when the public demanded it. He really wasn't the same after that."

She squared her shoulders in an attitude with which I was all too familiar. "No," she said in a resolute tone, "far better to bow out gracefully."

I was still struggling to process this information. No more books by Florence Wainwright to confound and fascinate the reading public. It seemed inconceivable. And what would her children say?

"Have you informed your family of your decision?" I asked, voicing my concerns aloud.

"Not yet," she answered quietly. "I thought you deserved to know first."

"Thank you," I said without thinking. No doubt it was rather selfish, but I was wondering what was to become of me. Yet again, I would have to look for employment — one of the most intensely demoralizing experiences a human being could endure. Of course, I had done it before and could do it again, but this time it was different. This time I was actually sorry to leave.

"I don't suppose there's any point in asking if you're sure about this?" I inquired, without much hope.

Slowly, Mrs. Wainwright shook her head. "I'm afraid not," she said, kind but firm. "My mind is quite made up. Nobody likes a prima donna who takes too many curtain calls."

I nodded, staring down at my hands in my lap. A peculiar heavy feeling settled over me. At first I couldn't place what it was, because I had not felt it in a long time. And then suddenly I knew. It was loss.

"I'm going to miss you, ma'am," I murmured hoarsely, tears blurring my vision.

"Enough of that," Mrs. Wainwright barked, causing me to look up sharply. To my surprise, her own eyes were shining with moisture. "You know I've always appreciated that pragmatic American brain of yours. Don't go getting all sentimental on me now."

I smiled despite myself. "No, ma'am."

Her manner softened. "Oh, Margaret." She came over to me and placed a hand on my shoulder. "I am sorry about this. You must feel as if people have been letting you down your whole life. If there was some way I could keep you on, I would, but I really do think this is for the best." Her grip on my shoulder tightened almost painfully. "But I _will_ make this up to you. I promise."

Unnerved by her sudden fervency, I could only give another nod.

Her hand fell away. "Now run along, dear," she said gently. "Take the rest of the day and do something nice for yourself."

Slowly, I rose to my feet. Reaching into my attaché case, I removed the pages of typed manuscript and placed them on the desk. I felt sluggish, stupid, like I was moving underwater.

I moved to the door and paused, my hand on the knob. "May I... come visit you now and then?" I dared to ask my former employer.

Her smile was oddly strained. "Best wait a while. I'll keep in touch."

Somehow, I managed a smile in return. "Goodbye, Mrs. Wainwright."

"Goodbye, Margaret," she said softly.

Unable to look at her any longer, I crept out and shut the door behind me.

I hurried down the hall and descended the staircase, trying not to fall to pieces. More than anything, I wanted to make my escape without any of the staff or the members of the family seeing me. Unfortunately it was not meant to be. Turning a corner, I crashed straight into a ridiculously tall, gangling figure I knew all too well. Frederick, Mrs. Wainwright's only son, shot out a hand to steady me.

"Miss Gibbs?" he asked, bewildered as he took in my agitated state. "Good heavens, are you all right? What's the meaning of this?"

Freddie Wainwright was a bit of a wastrel, and not especially bright, but he was nice enough. He was always polite to me, unlike his two abominable sisters. I realized, with no small amount of surprise, that I was going to miss him almost as much as his mother.

Somewhat futilely, I attempted to recover my composure before replying. "I'm leaving, Mr. Wainwright," I explained as calmly as I could. Which is to say, not at all. "Mrs. Wainwright has informed me that she no longer requires my services."

"What?" Mr. Wainwright exploded, making me flinch slightly. "Whyever not?"

"It's not for me to say. You'll have to ask her." I tried to move past his tall, bony frame. "Please excuse me, I have to go."

"The hell you do!" he said with unexpected ferocity. "Stay right here, Miss Gibbs. I'm going to have a talk with her."

A hysterical laugh threatened to escape me, but I pushed it down. "You know as well as I do that it won't do any good," I said. "Your mother is an unstoppable force of nature when she's made up her mind."

The man shook his blond head. "But this is madness! She can't do this!" There was a desperation in his voice that I didn't understand. I had never seen him so worked up about anything before. Placing his hand on my shoulder in a manner reminiscent of his mother, he gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry, Miss Gibbs. I'll straighten this out."

I couldn't help smiling at his concern. Very gently, I took his hand from my shoulder and grasped it in mine with an unmistakable finality. "You've always been very kind to me, Mr. Wainwright," I told him. "I want you to know I appreciate it."

"No, but look here—"

"Goodbye," I said tightly, slipping past him and out of the house.

I kept walking and walking until the Wainwright estate was completely out of sight. And then I had to stop. My breath was coming too hard and too fast. I sank down onto the grass at the edge of the road, waiting for the spots in my vision to dissipate. Even then, I couldn't bring myself to move.

"What am I going to do now?" I whispered.

* * *

From the sweeping, curved, fifth-floor windows of Whitehaven Mansions, Arthur Hastings fetched a wistful sigh as he watched the young auburn-haired woman descend the front steps of the luxury apartment building and make her way down the busy street. He felt a strange sense of guilt over her departure, though in reality it had not been his decision. He wondered if it was time to say something. On the one hand, it was technically none of his business. On the other hand, this business _had_ really gone on long enough.

Finally, unable to help himself, he turned away from the windows and cast a reproachful glare at the little man who sat at his desk, going through his stack of morning correspondence with meticulous care. "All right, then," he said rather sharply. "Let's have it."

Hercule Poirot looked up from his single-minded task. " _Comment?_ " he asked mildly, tilting his head on one side. "What is it that you say?"

"What was wrong with that last one?" demanded Hastings.

Poirot's dark, expressive eyebrows rose at his friend's tone. "Must you ask, Hastings?"

"Apparently I must," he replied, exasperated. "That was a perfectly nice girl you sent away. Not a single flaw, as far as I could see. I can't imagine what you found in her that was so distasteful."

"Can you not?" Poirot gave him a look of pity. " _Eh bien_ , I will tell you." Setting his correspondence aside, he placed his hands on the desk in front of him, his fingers making a tent. "It was her mouth."

For a moment Hastings stared at him, unsure how to respond. "You're joking," he said at last.

"Not at all."

"What on earth was the matter with it? I thought it was rather a pretty mouth."

"Oh, _oui_ , it was a very pretty mouth," agreed Poirot. "It was also a _wet_ mouth! A mouth that produced an inordinate amount of saliva! When she spoke, it sounded like the cat eating the mackerel!" He gave a little shudder. " _Ma foi_ , but it was intolerable."

Hastings could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Aren't you being a bit too picky, Poirot? That was the seventh applicant you've rejected so far."

Poirot merely shrugged. "None of them were suitable," he said simply.

"You turned one of them away because you didn't like the way she pronounced the word 'especially'," Hastings pointed out.

The little man frowned. "That is because the word 'especially' does not contain the letter 'X'," he answered with some asperity. "How can I expect an amanuensis to write the proper English if she cannot speak it?"

Hastings sighed, turning back to the window. When he had left his ranch in Argentina, he had hoped his holiday in England would be a relaxing one. His wife had been worried for his physical and mental state, and had suggested that a visit to see his old friend, the famous Belgian detective, would lift his spirits. But so far, it had proved just the opposite. Poirot had gotten it into his egg-shaped head that he was going to write a book on the subject of criminal psychology, and was currently interviewing potential writing assistants. He hadn't cared for any of them.

In hindsight, it was hardly surprising; the man was ridiculously difficult to please. After all, his regular secretary, Felicity Lemon, was not the first he had hired. She was not even the tenth.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this, Poirot?" asked Hastings, not for the first time. "I mean, I know I make it look easy, but really, writing a book is an awful lot of work."

Poirot's eyes grew wide with feigned surprise. "Truly, Hastings? I had no idea. Astound me with more of your revelations."

"Steady on, old man," Hastings groused, shoving his fists into his trouser pockets. "I'm only trying to help. There's the typing, and the proofreading, and the editing, and the multiple drafts and revisions. I don't mind telling you, it's all rather a headache."

Poirot held up his hand. "Thank you, _mon ami_ ," he said, not unkindly. "You have expounded to me these difficulties on numerous occasions. Assuredly, it will be a challenge for the little grey cells, but I have no doubt that mine are more than equal to the task." His expression soured. "The real challenge will be in finding a writing assistant who does not offend the senses."

Hastings shook his head. "I still don't understand why you can't just have Miss Lemon assist you."

The detective shot a glance through the small communicating window which connected his own office and sitting room with the office of his secretary. "In her own way, it is true, she is the secretary _par excellence_ ," he acknowledged gallantly. "But as an amanuensis? _Non_. Her strengths lie in the filing and the keeping of the accounts and the scheduling of the appointments. She has not the creative mind, the temperament _artistique_."

He rose to his feet and continued, gesturing grandiloquently with his hands. "This book I propose to write is to be no ordinary book, Hastings. It will be revolutionary, without precedent! Therefore I require as an assistant someone with more than merely the eye for spelling and punctuation, who will do more than simply research and check facts! I require someone who knows, not only good, but _bad_ writing, when he or she sees it! Someone who will read what I have written, and will say, 'Yes, that is good! Here is how we will make it _great!_ '" His chest puffed out like a pigeon as he spoke.

Hastings was unmoved by his friend's speech. "And what if you just turned that 'someone' away because you didn't like the way she slurped her tea?" he asked dryly.

Poirot glared at him. "Pray do not be flippant, Hastings," he replied severely. "There are some things which are not to be endured at any price."

Suddenly his fist came down on his desk with a thump, giving Hastings a start. "Bah!" he exclaimed. "I am getting nowhere on this, how do you say, tack? I must take some air and revise my approach to this matter. _Le bon Dieu_ , He will assist me."

As Poirot strode resolutely out into the hallway to don his hat and overcoat, Hastings gave another glance out the window at the gathering clouds. "You'd better take an umbrella," he called out. "It looks like ' _le bon Dieu_ ' is about to kick up another Deluge."

But his friend had already gone, banging the door behind him and causing Miss Lemon to shoot a puzzled glance through her little window at Hastings.

"Don't look at me," he said.

* * *

"Thank you for coming, Miss Gibbs, but I'm afraid you're not quite what I'm looking for."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I had no idea what to say to this. Had I somehow committed an unforgivable gaffe already? If so, my expediency was truly impressive. I had barely had a chance to settle in my chair in the office of Dr. Alistair Wallace, D.P.M., and I was already being shown the door.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said at last, rather lamely. "If I may ask..." I hesitated. "You see, I'm always looking for areas for improvement, and I would welcome any constructive criticism."

Dr. Wallace shook his head quickly. "Oh, no, it's nothing like that," he hastened to assure me. His voice was soft and solicitous. "You seem a very intelligent, competent young woman. And you certainly come highly recommended," he added, gesturing to my letter from Mrs. Wainwright, which extolled my virtues in embarrassingly glowing terms.

"Then I don't quite understand," I said slowly.

The doctor stood, fidgeting with a little model of a human foot which sat on his desk. He was a thin, balding man of middle age who ran a small practice from his home in Clerkenwell. I had seen his advertisement in the paper and had decided to take a chance. His letter inviting me for an interview had been encouraging enough. His sudden change of heart now was inexplicable.

"It's so difficult to know how to put this," he was saying, his manner oddly sheepish. "Erm... From your letter of application, and your extensive experience, I had been given to assume you were... much older."

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. It was not the first time I had heard this objection. "Well, I can assure you on that point that I'm not nearly as young as I look, if that's what you're worried about—"

Dr. Wallace cut me off. "It's dashed awkward," he said in a low voice. "If it were up to me, I would hire you, Miss Gibbs. I really would. But the fact of the matter is, it's not entirely my decision. My wife..." His voice dropped still further. "She's a dear creature, but she has an unfortunate habit of... Well, she gets terribly jealous of other women. I feel it would be an unkindness to her if I were to take on a secretary as... attractive as yourself."

It was all I could do to maintain my carefully bland expression. It was true that when Mrs. Wallace had introduced herself and poured me a cup of coffee, her manner had been strangely hostile and suspicious. But there was no reason in the world for her to be jealous of me. Although I was not ugly, I had never been a great beauty by anyone's definition. One of my fellow songstresses at the nightclub where I used to sing had been spot-on when she had described my looks as "disgustingly wholesome". In fact, it was for that reason that I was only allowed to sing treacly, sentimental numbers like "Tea for Two" and "Let a Smile Be Your Umbrella". The seductive siren songs were not for me.

"My conduct," I said, quietly but firmly, "where my employers are concerned has never been anything less than strictly professional, Dr. Wallace."

"No doubt, no doubt," the doctor replied with a nod. "But nevertheless..." His voice had dropped to a confiding whisper. "Things... happen. If you know what I mean."

A wave of revulsion swept over me.

"I see," I said coldly.

Suddenly it was all too clear. Dr. Wallace's wife was not laboring under an unreasonable jealousy toward any woman who was not a hundred and four, or had a figure like an oceanliner and a forest of hair sprouting from her chin. The good doctor's own conduct toward his previous secretaries had obviously been less than exemplary, and he could no longer be trusted. What a prince.

I rose swiftly to my feet, and he picked up my resumé and letter of recommendation, holding them out to me. "I'm very sorry, Miss Gibbs," he said.

I fairly snatched the papers from his hands and stuffed them into my attaché case. "Not nearly as sorry as I am for your wife," I replied flatly. "Good day, Dr. Wallace. No need to show me out."

Before he could respond, I hurried out of his office as quickly as I could, making for the front door. On the way, I passed the doctor's wife, who was pretending to be absorbed in polishing a fork and doing rather a poor job of it. "Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Wallace," I told her sincerely. "It was delicious."

"You're welcome," she said, clearly surprised by my hasty exit. "You're not going already, are you?" She sounded simultaneously disappointed and relieved.

"Yes." I struggled to come up with a diplomatic explanation. "It's... not going to work out."

She must have read something in my manner which I had not intended to show. Her pale, pinched face suddenly looked regretful. "Miss Gibbs..."

I smiled, feeling for the poor woman. "It's all right, Mrs. Wallace," I said. "Goodbye."

As I found myself once more on the sidewalk, I tried to convince myself that this was all for the best, and that I would rather be unemployed than work for a lecherous adulterer. Of course, this meant that I was back at square one. Yet again.

I spotted a newsstand down the road and decided to buy a newspaper. It was one of those maddening days in early April, when the weather was impossible to predict or prepare for, and as I stood there, leafing through the advertisements, the sky grew dark with clouds that seemed to me to be annoyingly portentous.

I pondered over why I was having such a difficult time finding a job. It occurred to me that I was in an unfortunate position. I was overqualified for many of the starting jobs available, but I lacked the training for a career in a more specialized field, like medicine or the law. I was in a sort of occupational limbo.

As if to underscore my misery, rain began to fall with a sudden fury, quickly soaking through my hat and coat and beating my newspaper to a pulp. Holding it over my head in what was possibly the most ineffectual substitute for an umbrella of all time, I ran to the nearest awning I could find, which proved to be nearly two blocks away. By the time I reached shelter, I must have resembled an angry wet hen. I certainly felt like one. I do so hate when Mother Nature rubs it in.

Cautiously, I shook out my soggy newspaper. It was almost illegible. As I tried in vain to make out the blurry newsprint, I became aware of the sound of quickly approaching footsteps, punctuated by a voice vociferating in furious French.

"Ah! _Non, non, non! Sapristi! C'est intolérable!_ "

I looked up, and found myself sharing the sidewalk with one of the most extraordinary human beings I have ever seen in my life. He was a man of indeterminate age, much the same height as myself, and he carried just a little extra weight about the middle. He was dressed immaculately but impractically in a three-piece suit, complete with a Homberg hat, gloves, spats, and a walking stick. As I watched, he daintily shook the water from his impossibly shiny patent leather shoes, rather like a cat. But the most striking thing about him was his moustache, which was very black and twisted into two fierce, waxed points on either side of his upper lip.

"A thousand pardons for this intrusion, Mademoiselle," he said to me with the utmost gentility. "Imbecile that I am, I seem to have forgotten my umbrella. Might I share with you this alcove, until the rain it has lessened somewhat?"

"Yes, of course," I replied, amused by his excessive politeness.

" _Merci_."

And then I'm afraid I continued to stare at the man very rudely. Because, you see, I knew him. Not personally, of course. But that impeccable appearance, combined with that distinctive accent which was not quite French, had suddenly produced in me a spark of recognition.

_The Styles Poisoning Case. The Lord Edgware Affair. The A.B.C. Murders._

"Excuse me," I said awkwardly, as he removed his hat sadly and upended it, pouring out a stream of water which had collected in the brim. "You're not... Hercule Poirot, are you?"

A pleased smile lit up the man's face. "I commend you on your pronunciation, Mademoiselle...?"

It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize he was asking for my name. "Gibbs," I said hastily, holding out my hand. "Margaret Gibbs."

With a Gallic flourish, he took my hand in his gloved one and bowed over it, bringing it close to his lips. " _Enchanté_."

I was rather enchanted myself. He had appeared so suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere on this gloomy day, with his silly moustache and Old World charm, that I couldn't help feeling that this was somehow not real. It all felt like an absurd dream.

"I am most gratified," he went on, releasing my hand, "and also surprised, to be recognized by one so young."

It was the second comment of this kind I had heard that day, but unlike the first, it did not make me inexplicably uncomfortable. This was evidently an innocent compliment. "I'm not that young, Monsieur," I told him. "Besides, I've read all about you."

"Ah!" M. Poirot smiled knowingly. "You are a _connoisseuse_ of crime, then?"

"Not exactly," I answered. "I used to be secretary to Florence Wainwright, the crime writer. She was very interested in all of your cases, and she had me track down every single news article which contained your name. If I may say so, Monsieur," I added, hoping I wasn't laying it on too thick, "your fame is well-deserved."

The detective acknowledged my praise with another bow. "You are too amiable." Then a frown creased his brow. " _Un moment_. You say you were secretary to this lady? You assisted her in her writing?"

I nodded. "Yes, that's right."

"But you work for her no longer?" he pressed.

I wondered why Hercule Poirot was so interested in my employment history. Perhaps, I thought, he had no interesting cases at present. Or, far more likely, he was just being polite. "No, she recently retired," I said, with as much lighthearted equanimity as I could manage. "I have no occupation at the moment."

At this M. Poirot's eyes, which I had mistakenly thought hazel, shone emerald green with suppressed excitement. " _Épatant_ ," he breathed to himself, to my utter confusion.

He cleared his throat and addressed me. "Mademoiselle Gibbs," he said with great formality, pronouncing my surname as _Geebs_. "I very much wish to find a place that is both warm and dry to continue this conversation most pleasant. Would you care to join me for lunch?"

To say that I was taken aback would be an understatement. Mere minutes ago, I had been reeling from a profoundly unsatisfactory interview and wondering if the universe was playing a colossal cosmic joke on me, and now this. In truth, I had been an admirer of Hercule Poirot for years, and had read of his successes with the greatest interest, but although he made his home in London, I had never seriously expected to come face-to-face with him. But here he was, the most celebrated detective in the world, and he was inviting me, an obscure, insignificant, unemployed secretary, to dine with him. I would never have this chance again.

Besides, if I was being honest with myself, I was famished. I had been skipping breakfast for weeks in order to stretch my funds, and my stomach was distinctly displeased with me for it. The mere thought of a bowl of soup and a hot roll almost made me swoon.

I smiled. "Gladly, Monsieur," I said.

Returning my smile, the little man offered me his arm. I tucked my own through it, and we set off together down the rainy street in search of a café.


	2. The First Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! I'm very grateful for your interest. Please enjoy this next chapter.

At their window table at the Café Duchamps, Poirot watched as Margaret Gibbs perused her menu with a poorly-concealed expression of alarm. She was, no doubt, looking at the prices. At once he felt a stab of pity for her.

"Please, order anything you like, Mademoiselle Gibbs," he told her soothingly. "It is my treat."

The woman's cheeks went a little pink. "It's very kind of you, Monsieur," she said quietly.

He spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. "Not at all. I am glad, on this inclement day, to be able to dine with such a charming companion."

She smiled. "I must admit, I'm not overly fond of eating alone. It's a nice change, having someone to talk to."

"Yes, indeed. To hear only the sounds of one's own chewing, it does not stimulate either the brain or the appetite."

Miss Gibbs gave a peculiar, noiseless laugh which was little more than an exhalation. It was the laugh of a person to whom restraint is a life-long practice.

Presently the waitress came for their orders. Miss Gibbs requested a small salad and a cup of _soupe à l'oignon_ , which seemed hardly enough for someone so thin. At his insistence, however, she agreed to share a _Brie en croute_ with him. To his surprise, she also ordered chamomile tea.

" _Moi aussi, s'il vous plait_ ," he told the waitress, who nodded and moved off. Then he addressed his new acquaintance: "You do not care for the English black tea, Mademoiselle?"

"Treasonous, I know," Miss Gibbs replied with a sheepish smile. "And my own mother was from Hampshire, too. I'm a disgrace to my heritage." Her voice dropped, as if she was afraid of being overheard. "I never warmed to the full English breakfast, either. I can't understand why anyone, immediately upon waking, would want to stuff themselves with fourteen kinds of meat."

Poirot gave a commiserating shake of his head. He himself felt very strongly on the subject.

The chamomile arrived, and he watched with interest as Margaret Gibbs brought the cup to her nose and sniffed it appreciatively. She was not what one would call _une belle femme_ , but she was rather pretty in a natural, unadorned sort of way. Her eyes were a deep blue-green, and one of her eyebrows was slightly higher than the other, giving her an almost quizzical expression. Her hair, which she wore in a wavy bob, was a light golden brown, and on her head was a smart grey hat perched at an angle. The rest of her ensemble was grey, as well, and conveyed an air of respectability which was almost severe. There were no ruffles, no embroidered designs, no superfluous embellishments of any kind. The only bit of indulgence she seemed to allow herself was the faint scent she wore, which Poirot had noticed when he had helped her off with her coat. It was light and fresh, but very feminine.

When he had first met her under the awning, Poirot had assumed she was young, but on observing her more carefully, he could see that she was possibly somewhere between thirty-five and forty. Her features were deceptively youthful, but there were shadows under her eyes which spoke of a difficult life. Still, there was something in her wholesome, freckled face and her wry smile that he found appealing despite his love of symmetry. Yes, decidedly she was pleasant to look at.

"Tell me, Mademoiselle," he said conversationally. "You are half-English, _n'est-ce pas?_ Judging by your accent, your other half is American, I presume?"

"Yes, that's right," Miss Gibbs answered. "My father was American. I was born in Philadelphia."

Poirot noticed that she spoke of both her parents in the past tense, but he refrained from commenting on it. Instead he asked, "And how long have you been in England?"

She set down her teacup. "Oh, my," she said reflectively. "A long time. I was shipped off to a boarding school in Sussex when I was thirteen."

That certainly accounted for her no-nonsense demeanor, Poirot thought to himself. There was nothing better than the good English boarding school for stamping out the _joie de vivre._

She went on to explain that after graduating, she had found work in England: first as a waitress, then as a cook, a nanny, a governess. Poirot was amused to learn that she had even been a singer at a club at one point. As excellent as his imagination was, he could not picture Margaret Gibbs on a stage, crooning love songs in a glittering gown. She was too stiff, too reserved. And yet, perhaps she had another persona which only emerged when she sang. Such things were not unheard of.

"You are evidently a woman of many talents," he observed.

She gave another breathy laugh. "I wouldn't go that far," she demurred. "But at least I seem to have finally found something I'm good at. At any rate, my last employer had no complaints. In fact, I believe she would have kept me on, if she hadn't retired from writing."

"Ah." Poirot took advantage of the turn their conversation had taken. "And what exactly were your duties, Mademoiselle?"

Miss Gibbs appeared surprised by the question, but she replied, "All the usual secretarial duties one would expect, as well as taking dictation, proofreading, and doing research for Mrs. Wainwright's novels. Sometimes, if I found an awkwardly phrased sentence, I would suggest an alternative. Occasionally she even consulted me on matters of plot and dialogue." She smiled in remembrance, her gaze far away. "She would say impatiently, 'Yes, yes, of course I know it's compelling and sensational, but does it make _sense?_ ' She couldn't be bothered with the minor details, so she expected me to turn her books inside out and then ferret out any discrepancies. But I didn't mind. I enjoyed it, actually."

Her smiled faded, and she looked up at him, as if suddenly remembering where she was. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you all this, Monsieur Poirot. Here I am, sitting with a world-renowned detective, and I'm nattering away about myself."

Poirot was not fully listening. He could hardly believe his good fortune. With an effort, he forced himself to focus. " _Non, non, non,_ do not apologize," he told her quickly. "Do you know why I asked you to join me for lunch, Mademoiselle Gibbs?"

She arched an eyebrow as she considered his question. "To be honest, I assumed it was because I looked half-drowned and thoroughly pathetic," she said wryly.

"Not at all." He drew himself up in his chair as he spoke his next words with an air of great importance: "You see, I, Hercule Poirot, have decided to write a book."

The weight of this announcement was somewhat spoiled by the appearance of the waitress, who had chosen that precise moment to bring their meals.

Miss Gibbs, however, did not seem to be affected by the interruption. "Really?" she exclaimed amid the clattering of plates. "What sort of a book? A collection of memoirs?"

Poirot shook his head. "Not memoirs. A comprehensive study of the psychology of the criminal mind."

"I can't wait to read it," Miss Gibbs remarked, picking up her fork.

"Truly?" he pressed.

"Absolutely," she said with apparently genuine enthusiasm. "Who wouldn't want to read a book by Hercule Poirot himself?"

Poirot was extremely gratified. "You are too kind," he murmured. "But, sadly, therein lies the difficulty. Poirot is not the native English speaker. Alas, even after all my years in this country, the right words, they sometimes escape me."

Miss Gibbs smiled. "Between ourselves, Monsieur, your English is better than that of many native speakers I've known."

He felt himself blush at the compliment. " _Tout de même_ , I shall still require someone to assist me," he went on.

His companion frowned, a forkful of salad halfway to her lips. "I would have thought that someone with such a successful practice would have a regular secretary."

With great care, Poirot unfolded his napkin and tucked it into his collar. " _Oui, bien sûr_ ," he replied. "But my secretary Miss Lemon has her own duties to perform. Also," he added rather ruefully, "I believe she would rather die than employ her mind toward creative endeavors. _Non._ She cannot help me with this matter. She has not offered, and I know better than to ask her."

Miss Gibbs nodded, looking a little mystified. He could tell that with this woman, the direct approach would be the most effective.

"May I speak frankly, Mademoiselle Gibbs?" he asked.

"Please."

Leaning forward in his chair, Poirot spoke in a low voice, attempting to be as discreet as possible. "You are unemployed. I judge by your — forgive me — somewhat underfed appearance, that you have been unemployed for no small amount of time. Am I wrong?"

The woman's face flushed in embarrassment. Slowly, she set down her fork, her gaze fixed on the white tablecloth. "No, Monsieur, you're not wrong," she said quietly.

Poirot reached across the table and patted her hand comfortingly. "Figure to yourself this," he continued. "I, Hercule Poirot, have been looking for a writing assistant for several weeks. And yet I have no success. Not one of the applicants has satisfied me that they have the necessary qualities. I am discouraged. I go for a walk to clear my head. It begins to rain, but oh, _mon Dieu_ , I have forgotten my umbrella! I run in search of shelter, and who should I find but _you_ , Mademoiselle?"

He tapped the back of her hand for emphasis. "You, who are formerly assistant to a well-known novelist. You, who take dictation, proofread, do the research, yes, all one would expect from a writing assistant. But you have also a strong command of the English language, and a mind that is logical and precise. In your own words, you 'ferret out the discrepancies'. And, because of the nature of your former employer's work, you have an extensive knowledge of crime. _En effet_ , you are exactly what I have been looking for."

Miss Gibbs was silent, her expression unreadable. But Poirot could see by her eyes that her mind was working furiously.

"You are distrustful of such an abrupt change in fortune?" he ventured to guess.

Slowly, she nodded. "I am, a bit," she said. "Experience has taught me to be wary of things that seem too good to be true."

"Indeed, there is much wisdom in what you say," he agreed. "And yet, you must admit that the chances of our meeting in this way are..." He considered for a moment. "Shall we say, statistically improbable?"

She smiled faintly. "I can't argue with you there," she admitted.

"Myself, I predict that we will enjoy a successful collaboration," Poirot declared firmly. "If I am wrong, _eh bien_ , we will go our separate ways, and I will help you to find work elsewhere. Of course," he added, inclining his head, "I am never wrong. But I plan for the contingencies all the same."

Suddenly he slapped his forehead reproachfully with the heel of his palm. "Ah, but Poirot has become impolite! He has not even asked you if you would like to work for him. I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Gibbs. Do you accept my offer of employment?"

To his alarm, Margaret Gibbs seemed to be struggling to maintain her composure. Her hands trembled as they clutched her napkin, and her eyes were over-bright with unshed tears. It confirmed Poirot's assessment of her character. Despite her calm exterior, she was obviously a woman of strong emotions, but for some reason she refused to let them show.

After a moment she cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. It's just... a little overwhelming. This was shaping up to be a disastrous day, until... Well, until I met you." Taking a deep breath, she smiled. "I accept your offer, Monsieur Poirot. With pleasure."

He beamed on her like a generous benefactor. " _Bon_ ," he said simply. "And now, _ma chére_ , perhaps you should eat your food. If I mistake not, your stomach begins to proclaim his disapprobation in the terms most strenuous."

At this she laughed — not a noiseless chuckle, but a real, warm, full-throated laugh.

* * *

With a full stomach and a strange, unidentifiable warmth in my chest, I climbed the narrow, creaking stairs to the second floor of the Tudor Rose Manor House — a rather ill-kept old half-timbered pile in east Lambeth which had been made into a boarding house. I walked to my own private room at the end of the hall and turned my key in the lock. Once inside, I set down my attaché case, kicked off my shoes, tossed my hat aside — wincing as it landed dangerously close to the fish bowl — and fell in a heap onto the bed.

For a long time, I simply stared up at the ceiling. Even now, I could not quite believe that the events of the day had actually happened. Had I really been offered a job by Hercule Poirot? It seemed too unlikely to be true, and yet I had the proof in my attaché case: a carefully wrapped baked Brie, which he had insisted I take home with me. Of all the wonderful, preposterous things.

After our meal, when the surprise of everything had worn off and I was significantly less famished, I had retrieved my resumé and letter of recommendation from my attaché case and passed them across the table for M. Poirot to peruse. It was important to me that he knew I was qualified for the job he had offered me, that I was worthy of the confidence he had in me. He had been favorably impressed by Mrs. Wainwright's letter, and returned it to me with a nod of satisfaction.

" _Excellent_ ," he said. "I think you will do nicely, Mademoiselle Gibbs."

"Thank you, Monsieur." As I returned the papers to my case, it had occurred to me to satisfy my curiosity on one point. I could not, I told him, figure out how I had missed the fact that he had been looking for an assistant. "After all," I said, as he primly dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, "I've been looking in all the newspapers. I'm certain I would have noticed if you had advertised."

"Ah." He winced slightly. "That, I fear, was at the advice of my secretary, Miss Lemon. She insisted on placing advertisements in all of the English literary journals — _The Strand_ , _The Fortnightly Review_ , _London Magazine_. She reasoned that many writing assistants are themselves aspiring writers, and would not be able to resist the opportunity to benefit from my association."

I tried to hide a smile at his lack of modesty, but he caught it anyway. "You think me the proud peacock, Mademoiselle?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye. "But it is true. I am, as they say in your home country, a 'big shot'. One might achieve a certain amount of notoriety simply from being in my employ. The thought would be a tempting one to a writer looking to make a name for himself. Or herself," he added judiciously. "In any event, Miss Lemon's theory proved to be correct. I received many answers to my advertisement. But alas, none of them were a good fit."

 _All the better for me,_ I thought. At least I knew now why I'd seen none of his adverts. It would never have occurred to me to look in any of the literary magazines.

We arranged that we should meet the following morning at his apartment in Whitehaven Mansions, which also served as his office. It was, in fact, not far from where I had met him. We would work on his book until one o'clock, whereupon I would return home and transcribe anything he had dictated to me into typewritten form, while his afternoons would be devoted to seeing clients. The evenings, he said, were to be entirely my own. Needless to say, I acquiesced without protest. It sounded to me like it would be the easiest job I had ever had.

Once that was settled, M. Poirot had reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim notebook and a rather ornate fountain pen. I watched, intrigued, as he scribbled something into the notebook and tore out the page. "I would not wish to cause you discomfort by inquiring what your previous employer paid you, but I hope this will be sufficient as a starting salary?"

He slid the paper across the table to me. As I picked it up and read the figure he'd written, I gave an involuntary gasp. "Good God," I blurted, before I'd managed to compose myself. "I mean... Monsieur Poirot, that's... far too much."

"Is it?" He gave a careless shrug. "Well, well. The English currency, it is so very confusing for poor old Poirot. Still... you will indulge me?"

I experienced a sudden rush of gratitude toward this odd little man, and toward whatever force had put him in my path. "I won't let you down, Monsieur," I said earnestly.

He smiled. "I think you are right."

Now, in my humble room, I pulled out the torn slip of paper and stared at it. Even though the position was not a permanent one, it was more than enough to provide for my needs for quite some time. I shouldn't have been surprised that M. Poirot was a wealthy man; he certainly dressed like he had money to burn. Still, it was, frankly, an obscene amount of money to pay someone of my job description. A cynical, suspicious part of me wondered if there was some ulterior motive behind his offer, but I dismissed it immediately. M. Poirot had a spotless reputation, and there was nothing in his words or conduct during our interview that had indicated that he was anything less than a perfect gentleman. On a deep, instinctive level, I knew I could trust him.

Perhaps, I thought, he was just eccentric, or even a little bit mad. Brilliant people often were. Maybe it simply pleased him to bestow heaps of money upon those less fortunate than him. If so, then at least it was a benevolent sort of madness.

In any case, tomorrow could not come soon enough.

Presently I heard a knock, and I looked up to see my landlady, Mrs. Ellis, standing in the open doorway. She was a plump, kindly, red-faced woman in her sixties, with a tangle of grey hair which was forever coming out of its bun. She had lost her husband many years ago, and had decided to supplement her small pension by letting rooms to single women. I was one of her oldest tenants.

"Hullo, Margaret," she said cheerily. "I heard you come in. Would you like some tea?"

Mrs. Ellis knew I disliked tea, but she always offered anyway. It was in her blood, I suppose. "No, thank you, ma'am," I replied politely, sitting up on my bed.

"Just thought I'd ask," she said with an airy shrug. "Well, dear, did you have any luck today?"

This was the other question she had been asking me every day for almost two months. For the first time, I had an affirmative answer to give her. "I'll say," I said, unable to hold back a smile.

She clapped her hands in excitement. "Oh, how lovely! You got that job at the podiatrist's, then?"

"No, thank God," I replied with an involuntary shiver. "He was unsavory in the extreme. But as it happened, I got a job anyway."

"Doing what?"

I drew in a deep breath, lifted my chin, and squared my shoulders. "I'm going to be working for Hercule Poirot," I announced importantly, unconsciously channeling my new employer.

"Who?"

My shoulders slumped at my landlady's blank expression. "You know. Hercule Poirot. Belgian detective. Famous. Brilliant. Solved the A.B.C. murders."

"Oh, yes," she murmured, tapping her chin with a fingernail. "That sounds vaguely familiar. Something about Andover, and Bexhill. Or was it Bagshot?"

I suppressed a sigh. I had been hoping for a bigger reaction than that.

Stepping into my room, Mrs. Ellis flopped down onto the bed beside me. Things were very informal at the Tudor Rose. "Well, go on," she urged. "Tell me all about it. How on earth did this come about?"

I told her of my morning — of my lucky escape from the odious Dr. Wallace, of my chance meeting with M. Poirot, of our lunch together, where he had explained his desire to write a book, and of his request that I should assist him. Mrs. Ellis listened attentively, nodding every now and then, while I tried not to lose focus as her hair slowly slid out of its untidy bun. 

"How exciting," she exclaimed when I finished my story. "So what's he like, this famous detective?"

"Well, he..." I paused, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. "He defies description. He's very... um... posh? Almost ludicrously so. If you weren't familiar with his reputation, I'm afraid it would be difficult to take him seriously. But he's very kind. And his book sounds fascinating. I can't wait to get started."

"I'm so glad," Mrs. Ellis said warmly, pressing my hand. "I don't mind telling you, I've been quite worried about you, Margaret. Not worried that you wouldn't pay the rent, of course," she added in a diplomatic tone. "You've always been good about that. I just mean that you've been looking so terribly tired and anxious lately.

"Of course, I can't blame you in the least," she went on hastily in response to my raised eyebrows. "It was hardly your fault that your writer lady decided to retire. I'd like to know what she was thinking, sending you away with no warning like that." She shook her head, clucking like a disapproving hen. "But this new job will be just the thing for you, love. And what a nice man this Mr., erm..."

"Poirot," I supplied helpfully.

"Oh, heavens. I shall never be able to pronounce that. But he sounds a dear man. You'll have to tell me all about your first day."

I promised I would, and with another pat on my hand, she bustled off, leaving me alone again.

Crossing the little room, I sat down at my desk and gave my typewriter a thorough once-over, making sure the ribbon and the feed roller were in working order. And then, having nothing else to do, I grabbed a book at random from my shelf in an attempt to distract myself. But _The Moonstone_ , as much as I'd enjoyed it in the past, did not succeed in helping me to ignore the voice that had been whispering in the back of my mind ever since my encounter with M. Poirot — that nagging, persistent voice I'd been trying to ignore my whole life, that always grew louder just when things were looking up.

_What will I do if this doesn't work out?_

With a sigh, I flung myself backward on my bed again.

I really loathed that voice.

Nevertheless, at slightly before the appointed hour I found myself staring up at the curved façade of Whitehaven Mansions, a sleek, stunning Art Deco building in Smithfield, just north of the City of London. The residence of Hercule Poirot.

 _You can do this,_ I told myself. _It'll be... fun._

Climbing the front steps, I entered a gleaming lobby and crossed the marble floor to the lift. A smart, uniformed lift operator deposited me onto the fifth floor, and I walked down the hall until I found 56B. Steeling myself, I raised my hand to the bell. A moment later it was opened by a tall, clean-shaven, pleasant-looking man in shirtsleeves.

"Good morning," he said. "May I help you?"

I blinked in confusion. "I'm not sure," I answered. "I might have the wrong flat. I'm looking for the offices of Hercule Poirot."

"Oh, no, you've come to the right place," he assured me. "Miss...?"

"Margaret Gibbs."

"Ah, yes! Poirot said you'd be coming." He stuck out a hand. "Arthur Hastings."

My mouth fell open before I could control it. "Captain Hastings, of course!" I said, shaking his hand eagerly. I was equally surprised and delighted to meet him here. It had been my understanding that he was living somewhere in South America. "I've read everything you've written about your cases with Monsieur Poirot."

"Oh, those old scribbles." He waved a dismissive hand. "Just a few trifling accounts of our little adventures together. Nothing special."

"No, no, they're wonderful, Captain," I insisted. 

The man's cheeks reddened slightly, but he appeared flattered. "Oh. Well." He cleared his throat. "Goodness, where are my manners? Do come in."

He stepped back to allow me inside and offered to take my coat. I thanked him, taking in my surroundings. We were in a bright, cheerful foyer, with gleaming parquet floors. To the left, an open doorway led to a small office, which was empty. Further down the hallway, I could see another, larger room with tasteful, modern furnishings. Everything in the place was spotless, but that was hardly surprising, given its occupant.

"Miss Lemon is around here somewhere," said Captain Hastings, peering into the little office. "That's Poirot's secretary. I expect you'll meet her sooner or later. Right through here, Miss Gibbs."

He ushered me into the larger room, which boasted a commanding view of the square below. It was evidently a multi-purpose area; it contained a sofa and a pair of armchairs, a dining table, and a desk over by the window. And seated at the desk, fastidiously arranging his moustache in a small looking glass, was Hercule Poirot.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Gibbs!" he exclaimed effulgently, as he rose to greet me. "You are very punctual. _Asseyez-vous, s'il vous plait._ "

I sat down in one of the armchairs and placed my attaché case at my feet, grateful for my French lessons at school. Still, I resolved to purchase a phrasebook and dictionary in order to refresh my memory at the first opportunity. It was evident I was going to need it.

"I see you have met my dear, dear friend, Captain Hastings, who is visiting me all the way from Argentina," continued M. Poirot. "Perhaps if you are lucky, he will regale you with his tale of the time he shot a caiman."

I looked up at the Englishman, startled. "You shot a caiman, Captain?" I asked.

"Yes," he said proudly. "In the Orinoco."

I blinked. "...Why?"

"Oh." He seemed nonplussed. "Well, I, err—"

M. Poirot cut him off. "Mademoiselle, I am most anxious to begin. But first, allow me to explain in a little more detail the premise of my book. I..." He shot a pointed glance at his friend, who had stretched himself out on the sofa with a newspaper. "Hastings? Pray do not be underfoot like the little dog. Mademoiselle Gibbs and I have much to discuss."

"Oh, don't mind me," Captain Hastings replied, blithely indifferent. "I've heard all this a thousand times. 'Order and method', 'the psychology of the individual', and all that. Could practically write it myself. Go on. I'll just be reading the financial section."

I hid a smile behind my hand as M. Poirot heaved a sigh. " _Le pauvre_ Hastings. He is the very best of men. He is also one of the most intellectually lazy men I have ever known. His little grey cells are in perfect working order, but he uses them not. But what will you?" He gave an eloquent shrug. "I always say a good heart is worth all the grey cells in the world."

At that moment a pale, slender woman entered the room briskly, carrying a pair of Russian tea glasses in silver holders. She was smartly dressed, and wore her red hair in crisp waves. I could see at once why M. Poirot employed her. She appeared to be efficiency personified.

"Ah!" he cried. "My secretary, Miss Lemon. Allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Margaret Gibbs, who has so kindly agreed to be my amanuensis."

"Indeed," the woman replied with a smile. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Gibbs. And not a moment too soon." Her voice dropped to a confidential murmur. "I was afraid he was on the verge of asking me."

"I would not dream of it, Miss Lemon," said the detective in a mock-serious tone.

She set down the glasses on the coffee table, their contents steaming. "Mr. Poirot mentioned that you liked chamomile, so I brought two glasses."

I was touched, both by the gesture and by the fact that my employer had remembered such an unimportant detail about me. "Thank you very much, Miss Lemon," I told her sincerely.

M. Poirot thanked her, as well. "You are sure you will not partake, Miss Lemon?" he added as she made to leave. His tone was distinctly mischievous. "It is especially fragrant this morning. Perhaps it is because it is made from the beautiful little flowers, and not the dirty brown leaves."

Miss Lemon merely shook her head in exasperation. "Mr. Poirot," she huffed, and left the room. From his place on the sofa, Captain Hastings chuckled.

M. Poirot turned to me, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Miss Lemon is so incurably English, I believe if someone were to prick her, she would bleed tea," he remarked. " _Alors_ , where were we, Mademoiselle?"

I hardly knew anymore. I was far too entertained by this oddly disparate group of people. I felt as if I had wandered onto the set of a stage comedy.

"You were about to explain the premise of your book, Monsieur," I reminded him.

" _Oui_." He began to pace slowly about the room, while I sipped my chamomile. "Most would say that criminals come in all shapes and sizes, that there is no correlation or connection between those who commit crimes. But this is not so. I have a little theory, which I will seek to prove, that there are only two types of criminal. The first type is what I call the circumstantial criminal. This type is motivated by external forces, such as his environment, upbringing, and associations. In nearly all cases, the circumstantial criminal is no different from a neurological viewpoint than you or I. Moreover, anyone can become this type of criminal."

"Anyone," I repeated thoughtfully under my breath. "But..."

M. Poirot paused. "Yes?" 

I realized I had interrupted him. "I'm sorry, Monsieur. Please go on." 

"But I wish to know what you think, Mademoiselle Gibbs."

I hesitated. "Well, it's a fascinating hypothesis. Essentially, you're saying that under the right conditions, anyone is capable of committing a crime. But what about murder?"

" _Mais oui_ ," he replied seriously. "Even murder." 

I glanced over at Captain Hastings, but he was still buried in his newspaper. I knew that he had served in the War and had seen combat. For all I knew, he could have killed in service to his country. But I couldn't picture him committing murder. He was so... _upright._

"I'm not sure I agree," I said slowly, trying to be tactful. "Killing in self-defense, perhaps, or in the heat of battle, but murder? The premeditated execution of another human being? I don't believe that's true."

M. Poirot raised a dark eyebrow. "You try to knock a great hole in my theory, _n'est-ce pas?_ " 

I clapped a hand over my mouth, mortified. _Idiot,_ I chastised myself. What on earth had possessed me to contradict the man who was quite possibly the world's leading expert on criminal psychology? Was I trying to get sacked on my first day?

I began to stammer. "No, no, I— I didn't mean—" 

M. Poirot smiled. " _Du calme,_ Mademoiselle," he said soothingly. "I merely joke with you. But on this point I am perfectly serious. After all, murder may have a million motives. In the mind of the one who takes a life, the reason may be entirely justified." 

When put that way, I had to admit he was right. In all the research I had done in my work for Florence Wainwright, I had read of countless cases of murder, and of many different motives: money, hate, jealousy, revenge. Many of those murderers, no doubt, thought they were doing the right thing.

"You mentioned two types of criminal, Monsieur Poirot," I said. "What was the second type?"

He sat down in the chair opposite me, tenting his hands and resting his fingertips on his chin. "The second type," he said quietly, "is what I refer to as the instinctive criminal. This person, it would seem, is without what we would call a conscience. He is not influenced by his environment or by circumstance. His antisocial behavior is displayed at an early age. Even when raised in a loving home with good, compassionate parents, he still grows up to display a complete disregard for his fellow men and women. He has no empathy, no pity, no concept of right and wrong."

I felt a shiver climb my spine. It was uncanny, how well he had described my late stepfather. It was almost as if he had known the man personally. It was also, I realized, a perfect description of someone else I had known. Someone whom I was still trying to forget.

M. Poirot was looking at me very closely. "You have known such a person?" he asked.

I swallowed. "One or two," I said in a low voice. His intent green gaze was a little unnerving.

He nodded, leaning forward in his chair. "I understand if you are having the second thoughts about assisting me with this. The subject, it is not a pleasant one." 

"No, I'm not having second thoughts," I said quickly. "I wouldn't miss this for the world." 

M. Poirot smiled slightly. "You will forgive me for saying so, Mademoiselle Gibbs, but there is something a little strange about you."

Captain Hastings suddenly became more alert. "Poirot!" he exclaimed disapprovingly. "That's not very polite." 

"On the contrary, I'm flattered," I said with a laugh. "I'd rather be strange than boring any day." 

"You are anything but boring," replied M. Poirot. "Shall we begin?"

I picked up my attaché case, opened it, and retrieved a small stenotype machine, which I placed on my lap. "I'm ready, Monsieur."

We set to work on the introductory chapter, in which the detective gave a preliminary description of his theory. He spoke rapidly, his thoughts flowing with such speed that I found myself struggling a bit to keep up. Occasionally I worked up the nerve to interrupt him, and point out an ungrammatical sentence or suggest a better adjective. Mercifully, he did not seem to mind the corrections.

Before I knew it, the little clock on the mantelpiece was striking one o'clock. The time had flown by without my knowledge. As I packed my stenotype away, I tried to hide my disappointment.

The two men accompanied me to the door, and Captain Hastings helped me on with my coat. M. Poirot took my hand and bowed over it, ever the genteel Belgian. "Mademoiselle, I thank you for all your help today," he said. "It has been both instructive and enjoyable."

I shook my head. "No, thank _you_ , Monsieur," I told him, "for giving me this opportunity. I won't forget it."

" _C'est rien,_ " he murmured with a smile.

"Are you sure you won't stay for lunch, Miss Gibbs?" asked Captain Hastings.

But I was loath to wear out my welcome. "Thank you for the offer," I said politely, "but I'd better get home and start typing this up. Until tomorrow, Monsieur Poirot. Captain Hastings."

" _Au revoir,_ Mademoiselle."

"Goodbye, Miss Gibbs."

Miss Lemon was on the telephone, but she gave a little wave from her office. With a wave in return, I left the flat, attaché case in hand. Very calmly, I walked to the lift and descended to the lobby. It was not until I had exited the building, turned a corner, and was completely out of sight that I allowed an enormous grin to overtake my face. My heart was full to the point of bursting.

 _God help me,_ I thought.

* * *

Poirot watched Miss Gibbs disappear from view, then turned away from the window to address Hastings. "Well, _mon ami?_ " he asked expectantly. "What do you think of my new amanuensis?"

"Lovely girl," his friend observed.

He fixed him with a censorious look. "She is hardly a girl, Hastings," he said severely. "Was she wearing the pigtail braids and the pinafore with the little pockets? _Non._ She is a grown woman." 

Hastings rolled his eyes — most disrespectfully, in Poirot's opinion. "All right, a lovely _woman_."

Poirot waited for him to elaborate, but nothing more was forthcoming. "And?" he persisted. " _Est-ce tout?_ Does she have no other characteristics than that she is 'lovely'? You are a writer, are you not? Describe to me your impressions of Mademoiselle Gibbs."

The man sighed in a long-suffering manner. "Well, she's... pretty," he said after a moment's thought. "Not overtly beautiful, but pretty. Charming manners, nice smile. I noticed that one of her eyebrows is a little higher than the other. I'm surprised that it didn't disqualify her immediately in your eyes."

"I noticed that, as well," Poirot replied offhand. "Unfortunate, but not unforgivable. What else?"

"Oh, I don't know," Hastings blurted, exasperated by this cross-examination. "She seems... bright. Has a good head on her shoulders. She doesn't strike me as the type to scream and leap onto a chair at the sight of a mouse. Very... sensible."

Poirot nodded slowly. " _Oui, c'est ça._ You have hit upon the right word. She is sensible." For an instant, he had an image in his mind's eye of Margaret Gibbs, sitting in his armchair facing him, her posture straight and attentive, but her gaze far away. "Did you regard her eyes?" he asked Hastings.

"I should say so," his friend said with feeling. "They were a beautiful color. Like the sea in the south of France, or the Greek Isles. They were almost enough to knock a man off his pins." 

"Hastings, you wax poetic," he said, amused. "But I was not referring to their color. Did you not remark to yourself the deep sadness in her eyes?" 

Hastings frowned. "No, I can't say I noticed." 

"But I did, _mon ami_ ," Poirot said gravely. "There are scars there, both old and new. But she has strength of character, if I am not mistaken. She intrigues me, this Mademoiselle Marguerite."

He recalled the way those sea-green eyes had looked when he spoke of the man without conscience, without compassion. It was as if she had been transported somewhere else while her body remained in his neat, orderly sitting room. Somewhere terrible.

"Yes, she intrigues me very much," he said softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I'm basing this story's setting and the characters' physical descriptions on those in the television series. As much as I love Agatha Christie's works, I think the actors who portrayed Poirot, Hastings, and Miss Lemon were perfectly cast, and I can't help but borrow their likenesses. But I've kept Poirot's eyes green. _Naturellement._
> 
> Hope you like it so far!


	3. The Ainsley Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who read, commented, and left kudos! Your support is very much appreciated. This is a long chapter, but I was reluctant to break it into two parts. You’ll see why. Also, a warning: while not exactly explicit, this gets pretty dark.

From the correspondence of Arthur Hastings, former Captain in the British Army  
Reprinted with permission from the author

My Darling Bella,

I hope that by the time you receive this letter, I shall already be holding you in my arms. As much as I've enjoyed my little recuperative holiday, I am anxious to be home again. Poirot, as excellent a fellow as he is, is hardly a substitute for my dear wife.

So much has happened since my last letter, I scarcely know where to begin. I suppose I could wait and tell you everything when I get back to the ranch, but I want to write it all down now, while it is still fresh in my mind.

I told you that Poirot finally found an assistant to help him with the book he's writing. Although I no longer pretend to be any sort of expert on the subject of women, as you well know, I think you would like Margaret Gibbs. At first I thought she was rather too stiff and cerebral — an automaton in a practical grey suit — but now I suspect that it was just nerves on her part; since that first day, her coolness seems to have thawed. She is still a little reserved by nature, but she is quite friendly. She has also shown herself to possess a hidden fire under her calm exterior, as I will go on to explain.

To be honest, I’m a bit surprised that Poirot did not frighten her off immediately. I don't mean to say that my friend is unkind to his employees at all; in fact, there's not a cruel bone in his body. It's simply that he is the most confoundedly fussy creature who ever lived. His odd quirks and irritating perfectionism tend to drive off all but the most long-suffering. As you know, Miss Lemon was nowhere close to being his first secretary. I do believe she's only lasted this long due to sheer force of will.

Against all odds, however, Margaret Gibbs has not only survived all of Poirot's maddening idiosyncrasies, she doesn't appear to be fazed by them at all. On one occasion, when he noticed a ladder in her stocking and asked her to go home and change it, I thought for certain that we had seen the last of her. But she simply stood up, walked out the door, and returned a short while later in a fresh pair of stockings, ready to take dictation. Of course, that could be put down to her past experience as a nanny and governess. One has no choice but to learn patience, after all, when dealing with difficult children. I suppose the same can be said for difficult employers.

Poirot has certainly taken a liking to her. She has a quick mind and, owing to her previous association with Florence Wainwright, a vast knowledge of crime. She and Poirot spend almost as much time in debating the finer points of criminal psychology as in doing any actual work. She's not afraid to challenge his views, and he appears to enjoy it. He doesn't even seem to mind when she casually corrects his English. It's all a bit surreal to watch.

But it was not until the Ainsley case that I began to see that there was far more to this unflappable little writer's assistant than I had ever guessed.

The incident in question took place just a few days ago. I rose one morning to the smell of coffee brewing. Curious, I staggered down the hall toward the source of the heavenly aroma, and was somewhat taken aback to find Miss Gibbs in the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee. Her presence was a surprise, as she was not due to arrive for another hour.

"Good morning, Captain," she greeted me in her brisk, businesslike American manner.

"Er, good morning, Miss Gibbs," I said, conscious of my disheveled appearance. "It's not half past nine already, is it?"

She smiled. "Poor Miss Lemon is feeling under the weather," she explained. "She rang me up and asked if I could take over her duties for the day. Would you like some coffee?"

"Please." She handed me a steaming cup. "Does this mean you won't be helping Poirot with his book today?"

"I certainly hope not," she said, sounding concerned. "We just started a new chapter discussing fear-based anger as the primary cause of violent crimes."

I shook my head to myself. Poirot was right; she was a strange woman.

Leaving her to her tasks, I made my way to the sitting room, where Poirot was seated at the dining table. Laid before him was his usual Continental breakfast of coffee and rolls. " _Bonjour_ , Hastings," he said cordially. "Will you have a croissant?"

I would much rather have had poached eggs, porridge, and bacon, but with Poirot, one learns to adapt. "No Miss Lemon today," I remarked, taking a roll.

"I see nothing escapes you, _mon ami_ ," he replied with a twinkle. "She has a migraine this morning. A terrible malady; my mother used to suffer from them, as well. Fortunately, Mademoiselle Gibbs was kind enough to take Miss Lemon's place."

He spoke with a faint smile, and a suspicion began to form in my mind. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Despite his unmarried state, Poirot has always had a soft spot for the ladies. And though Miss Gibbs was not exactly an exquisite beauty, she had her own fresh-faced appeal. She was a bit young for him, but the age difference was not so great. More unequal matches were made every day.

"You two seem to be getting on well," I observed in a casual tone.

"Indeed, she is a most competent assistant," he answered placidly, sipping his coffee.

"Coming from the great Hercule Poirot, 'competent' is practically a sonnet," I said with a knowing smirk.

"As you say."

Frustrated by his refusal to take my bait, I sat down at the table beside him. "Come now, Poirot," I said. "There's no shame in admitting you're sweet on the girl."

"Woman," he corrected me instantly.

"Yes, yes," I said with an impatient wave of my hand. "The point is, she's pretty, intelligent, and 'competent', as you say. By some miracle, she doesn't seem to mind your... uniqueness. If you ask me, you've been a bachelor long enough. If you like Miss Gibbs, why shouldn't you act on it?"

The look Poirot gave me was positively murderous. "Be so good as to lower your voice, Hastings," he hissed, nodding toward the open door. "Not everyone is as hopelessly sentimental as you are. Nor do they fall in love with every woman they happen to meet."

"Now look here," I began indignantly, "I don't—"

He cut me off. "Use the brains the good God has given you for one second. How would it appear if I, Hercule Poirot, were to make a declaration of affection to a young lady in my employ, under my roof and therefore under my protection? It would be unprofessional and uncaring in the highest degree. My reputation, as well as that of Mademoiselle Gibbs, would be damaged beyond repair. But you did not think of that, did you? _Non_ , as always you think only of romance."

I was silent, feeling rather like a schoolboy who has just been scolded. "I suppose you have a point there," I said at last.

Poirot sighed and set down his coffee cup. "Mademoiselle Gibbs is a charming woman, and I enjoy her company," he said firmly. "And that is all."

"Nothing more?" I persisted, unable to help myself.

"Nothing more."

I was disappointed by Poirot's attitude. After all, Miss Gibbs would not be his assistant forever. Eventually his book would be finished, and then there would be no reason not to develop a relationship. I don't know why, but somehow I knew that it would be a good match. I had the same feeling when I met you, Bella. Quite frankly, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. It was my sincere wish that my friend could experience the same joy that I felt, but it seemed that he was determined to remain a bachelor for the rest of his life. The thought saddened me.

Nevertheless, I dropped the subject, for his sake. Presently, Miss Gibbs came in to freshen our coffee and to give Poirot the morning post. He went through it with his usual meticulous care, and finally announced his intention to resume work on his book. Miss Gibbs was visibly pleased, and I took my cue to exit.

I went for a walk, taking advantage of the good weather. It was a lovely spring morning, of a kind seldom seen in London, and the flowers were in full bloom. I rambled aimlessly for a while, stopped in a café for a _proper_ breakfast, and returned to Poirot's flat to the sound of clacking keys. I leaned into the sitting room. Poirot was expatiating on the subject of violence in the home, while Miss Gibbs took dictation on her stenotype machine.

I listened for a while, but the topic made me uncomfortable. I was about to retreat to my old bedroom to read, when the doorbell buzzed. I answered the door, and was greeted by the familiar sight of our old friend, Chief Inspector James Japp of Scotland Yard. Except for a touch of grey in his hair and moustache, he looked much the same as ever.

"Well, if it isn't Captain Hastings?" he said affably, shaking me by the hand. "Back from the pampas plains, are you? Are you here for a visit, or for good?"

"Just for a visit," I told him, stepping back to let him inside. "I return home in a few days. How is Mrs. Japp?"

"Emily's well, thanks," said Japp. "Though I can't say _I_ am. She's been experimenting with Indian cuisine lately, and it hasn't been agreeing with me. Damn the man who invented curry."

I laughed. Same old Japp.

"Is Poirot in?" he asked.

"Yes, he's working on his book."

The police inspector frowned. "Book?"

"He's writing a book," I explained. "On criminal psychology. He's in there now with Miss Gibbs."

"Who?"

"Margaret Gibbs. His new writing assistant. Nice woman. Quite pretty."

Japp smiled and raised his eyebrows significantly. "She _would_ be, wouldn't she?"

I led him through the foyer and down the hall to the sitting room, where Poirot and Miss Gibbs were still hard at work. "According to the latest estimates," Poirot was saying, "nearly two-thirds of female murder victims are killed by members of their own families. Of these, one-third are killed by their spouses. Only eight percent of female victims are killed by strangers. With little doubt, this is proof of the important role which emotions play in crime. Many men are taught from an early age that they must suppress all negative emotions save anger, with the result that they are only able to express themselves through violence."

Miss Gibbs cleared her throat. "Monsieur Poirot," she said unobtrusively. "It might be better to say, 'These statistics emphasize, with little room for doubt, the important role which emotions play in crime.'"

He tilted his head thoughtfully to one side. "You think so?" Slowly, he nodded. "Perhaps that does sound better. Very well. Make the necessary change."

"Pretty grim stuff, Poirot," Japp commented, as he stood listening in the doorway.

Poirot's gaze landed on him. "My dear Chief Inspector Japp!" he exclaimed, beaming. "How good it is to see you, _mon ami_. Please allow me to introduce my amanuensis, Mademoiselle Margaret Gibbs."

Miss Gibbs rose to her feet, and Japp came forward and shook her hand. "How do you do?" he asked.

"Pleased to meet you, Chief Inspector."

"Mademoiselle Gibbs has been most instrumental in helping me to improve my English," Poirot went on. "Perhaps she could be of assistance to you in this area, as well." 

Japp snorted. "Ain't nothin' wrong with my English," he growled, with a sidelong wink at Miss Gibbs. "This doesn't bother you, Miss? All this talk about women getting murdered and such?" 

I was alarmed to see a haunted expression steal over her freckled face. I recalled Poirot's remark about observing a deep sadness in her eyes. But her voice when she spoke was calm enough. "It is unpleasant, Chief Inspector, but it does no good to sweep it under the rug," she replied. "Increased awareness of the dangers women face in the home may result in more lives being saved." 

"Hear, hear," I said with feeling.

My friend turned to the Scotland Yard man. "So, Chief Inspector, what brings you to see Poirot?" 

Japp sighed and lowered himself into a chair. "It's this Alexander Ainsley business," he said. "I can't seem to let it go." 

"Yes, I read about that," I said. "Rich old man in Basingstoke fell off his balcony to his death. They say he'd been drinking heavily." 

"Oh, he'd been drinking, all right," Japp agreed. "The coroner confirmed that he'd had so much whiskey in him, his molars were practically treading water."

I heard a cough, and I looked over at Miss Gibbs. She was covering her mouth to hide a smile.

"No strange occurrence for the old boy, either," Japp continued. "By all accounts, he was in the habit of getting sozzled. On the face of it, it appears to be a straight-forward case of accidental death due to intoxication, but... something about it just doesn't sit right with me."

"I did not think you put much faith in intuition, _mon ami_ ," remarked Poirot.

Japp scowled. "I don't. Not usually. This is different, though. It seems everyone involved in the case had a reason for getting Ainsley out of the way. And you've only to meet them for yourself to believe any one of them could be capable of it. Nasty bunch, every last one of them. Except for the daughter, but there's something funny about her, as well. She knows more than she's telling, or I'm the prime minister."

He shook his head. "I _know_ he was murdered; I know it in my gut. I just can't prove it." He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "I, er... I wonder if you might..." 

He trailed off and cast a hopeful glance at Poirot. My friend held up his hand. "Say no more, my friend. I will assist in any way I can. It may well have been an accident, of course, but if it was indeed murder, Poirot shall find the culprit."

Japp's shoulders relaxed, as if relieved of a heavy burden. "I owe you one, Poirot." He stood and grasped the little Belgian's hand. "I've got to head back to the Yard, but I'll instruct the Basingstoke constabulary to give you their full cooperation. Perhaps Captain Hastings can apprise you of the details. He seems pretty well up on the case."

"Of course," I said.

"Then Hastings shall accompany me. It will be like the old times, _n'est-ce pas?_ "

Thanking Poirot again, the inspector took his leave. I began to gather all the recent newspapers which contained information about the case, in order to consolidate the facts into a succinct narrative. As we moved to the door, Miss Gibbs followed, handing Poirot his coat.

"You will come, as well, Mademoiselle?" he asked as he shrugged it on.

Miss Gibbs appeared startled. " _Me?_ " she blurted.

"But yes. I can see on your face that you wish to go."

Her face grew slightly pink. "I won't deny it, Monsieur," she admitted. "I've read about your cases for years, but I've never actually gotten to see you work. I would be very curious..." She shook her head quickly. "But surely I'd better stay behind, in case anyone should call."

Poirot smiled. "Do not tell Miss Lemon, but I think I can survive without a secretary for one day. On the other hand, your assistance may prove useful." Without waiting for an answer, he took her own coat from the rack and helped her into it. "Come, _mes amis_. We have a train to Basingstoke to catch."

He hurried out the door and down the corridor to call for the lift. Miss Gibbs held back, chewing her lip. Sensing her hesitation, I asked, "Are you sure about this, Miss Gibbs? I mean, it's all rather morbid, isn't it?"

She raised an eyebrow as she considered this. Then she shrugged. "I can't imagine it's any more morbid than the book I'm helping him with," she said at last. 

I blinked. "Right. Good point. After you."

As the train sped away from London, and the cramped streets of the city gave way to the rolling green countryside, I summarized the case with the help of the articles I had collected. Alexander Ainsley, aged seventy-two, had been found last Sunday morning by the gardener, dead in the bushes, after falling from his bedroom balcony. He had been highly intoxicated. Present the previous night were his wife Harriet, daughter Ruth, son Nicholas and his wife Alice, and their teenaged daughter Beatrice. Also present were the butler, housekeeper, cook, and a handful of maids.

Miss Gibbs took notes while I spoke, but Poirot simply leaned back in the seat in our compartment, his eyes closed. To one unacquainted with his methods, he might have been asleep. But I knew he was absorbing every word.

At length we arrived in Basingstoke, where a local constable was waiting to meet us. The man seemed rather annoyed to find Poirot, not alone, but accompanied by a retired Army captain and a secretary, but he made no comment. As he drove us to the Ainsley estate, he and my friend discussed the case in more detail, but he had little more to add, other than his opinion that the family was hiding something, as they were all singularly disagreeable and uncooperative.

We arrived at a stunning old Neoclassical mansion on several sprawling acres, surrounded by dense woods. The constable told us he would wait by the car, as he had already questioned everyone. A tall, impassive butler ushered us into a grand entrance hall, where we met an equally tall, impassive older lady, who introduced herself as Harriet Ainsley, the widow of the deceased.

She made no secret of the fact that she had disliked her late husband. He drank, spoke abusively to his family, and behaved indecently toward the female servants. As far as her whereabouts at the time of his death, she had been organizing a function at the village church, and had not returned until very late. Since she and Mr. Ainsley had occupied separate bedrooms, she had had no idea of his death until the gardener found him the following morning.

We next spoke to the son, Nicholas Ainsley. He was about forty years of age, with a handsome, careworn face. He spoke of his late father without a trace of grief. He had been an embarrassment, Nicholas said; he had no skills, and contributed nothing to society. He had been nothing more an obscenely rich, useless old man with an improper obsession with young women. Nicholas's wife Alice had nothing to add, as she had tried to avoid her father-in-law whenever possible. They both had remained in their room reading all evening.

Nicholas Ainsley informed us that their daughter Beatrice was in the conservatory, along with his younger sister Ruth. As he led us through the vast, echoing hallway, Poirot nudged me. I followed his gaze to a large portrait on the wall. Immediately I recognized the subject from the articles in the newspaper. Alexander Ainsley had been an imposing figure in life, with piercing grey eyes and a rather cruel mouth. Sadly, it came as no surprise to me that his death was not mourned.

Beatrice sat on a chaise longue, and did not get up when we were introduced. She could not have been more than sixteen, but she wore heavy makeup, and smoked a cigarette with a long lacquered holder. She was every inch the spoiled socialite, and I suspected she was under the influence of some drug, possibly cocaine. She openly admitted to loathing her grandfather, but she'd had nothing to do with his death. She had several friends who could confirm that she was out of the house that Saturday night.

Her aunt, Ruth, was a shy, ethereal, blonde young woman in her twenties. She had not been fond of her late father, but she had no particular quarrel with him. She tended to keep to herself. As she spoke, her timid doe eyes darted nervously around the room.

We left the two ladies in the conservatory. "Well, _mon ami?_ " Poirot asked, once we were alone. "What are your thoughts?"

I shook my head. "It seems to me that any one of them had reason to kill the old man," I said, "assuming it was foul play. They all seem to have detested him."

"Except for the daughter, Ruth," added Miss Gibbs. "She never said a word against him."

"Indeed," remarked Poirot. "It is suggestive, that."

She turned to him. "Suggestive of what, Monsieur?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "It is just a little idea. I can say nothing definite at this point."

Without the slightest attempt to elaborate, he shuffled off in the direction of the servants' quarters. Miss Gibbs turned toward me, as if expecting some sort of explanation. "Yes, he does that," I said. "Irritating, isn't it?"

We caught up to Poirot as he was speaking to the housekeeper. She seemed overjoyed at the death of her master. He was a wicked man, she said; he used to leer at the girls in town, and harass the maidservants. The butler, whose name was Allerdyce, confirmed her words. He had been with the family for many years, and Ainsley had always treated him terribly. When Poirot asked him why had stayed so long, he simply said, "Loyalty, sir."

I'm afraid, my darling, that you will think me rather heartless for my next words. "I can't say I'm sorry the old boy is dead," I groused, as we returned to the entrance hall. "I'd have liked to have chucked him off that balcony myself."

Poirot smiled. "My good Hastings, always you are the knight in shining armour. Fortunately, you do not mean what you say."

"Well, no," I admitted. "Not really. But it's shameful, the way he behaved toward those poor girls. And under his own roof, no less."

" _Oui, c'est vrai_. By all accounts, Monsieur Ainsley seems to have been the villain of his own story. Mademoiselle Gibbs, you are very quiet."

Miss Gibbs had been staring up at the portrait of the deceased, but at Poirot's words, she whipped her head around to face him. "Hmm? Oh, I'm sorry, Monsieur. I was thinking... about Nicholas Ainsley."

Poirot raised his eyebrows. "A handsome man, do you not think?" he asked, a mischievous note in his voice.

She shook her head abstractedly. "I suppose so, but that's not what I meant. I can't help thinking that he doesn't bear the slightest resemblance to his father's portrait."

I looked up at the painting in question. She was right; while the late Alexander Ainsley's features were harsh and aquiline, Nicholas's were softer, less defined.

Poirot was nodding. "That did not escape my notice, Mademoiselle," he said. "Do you recall the butler's explanation for why he remained in the employ of Monsieur Ainsley?"

"Yes," I said. "Loyalty."

" _Précisement_. But why should he feel any loyalty toward a man who did not deserve it? A man who mistreated him for years?"

I could not answer this.

"Mademoiselle Gibbs?"

She frowned. "I certainly can't explain it. Unless..." Her sea-glass eyes widened. "Unless he wasn't talking about Mr. Ainsley."

Suddenly I began to see what she was driving at. "Oh, dear," I muttered, feeling my cheeks grow warm.

"I think we must have a little talk with Madame Harriet Ainsley," Poirot said quietly.

The woman was absolutely frank with Poirot. Yes, she said, Nicholas was Allerdyce's son. She and Allerdyce had loved each other for decades. Neither he nor Nicholas knew the truth, and her husband had never suspected. She supposed she would tell them both someday, when everything had settled. In the meantime, however, she made the three of us swear to secrecy. I suppose I'm breaking that promise by telling you, Bella, but I trust you not to share this information with anyone.

Besides, what we learned next made this revelation seem mild in comparison.

To my surprise, young Beatrice Ainsley sought us out, and indicated that we should follow her. She led us into a gloomy parlour, and shut the door firmly behind us. I can hardly bear to recount what she told us, but it's necessary that you should know everything. I shall put down the girl's words exactly as she said them.

"That Saturday evening," she said, her face cool and expressionless, "after I returned from London with my friends, I had an argument with my grandfather. You see, we had a business arrangement. He gave me money to support my cocaine habit, and in return... I let him watch me undress."

My stomach gave an involuntary lurch. I watched as Miss Gibbs's hand flew to her mouth. "Good God," I breathed. "You poor girl."

Beatrice's painted lips twisted into a humourless smile. "Not so poor," she said bitterly. "I was paid very handsomely." Her smile faded. "But I got tired of it. Tired of feeling... dirty. I refused to do it anymore, and I went up to his room and told him so. He was so angry. Screamed at me until his face turned an amusing shade of vermilion. Everyone heard it. And then I left."

Poirot said nothing. He seemed to have aged at least ten years in the last minute. Beatrice noticed his silence. "I know you think I shoved him off that balcony," she said, almost angrily. "I wish I had. God knows I had good reason. But I didn't. You see, I'm a coward, Monsieur Poirot."

Her face retained its expression of jaded indifference, but her voice trembled. I realised that, for all her pretense, she was still a child.

Poirot took her hand gently in both of his. " _Non, mon enfant,_ " he said kindly. "You are no coward. You broke free of your grandfather's hold on you. For that you are very brave."

Beatrice stood there for a long moment, her hand in Poirot's. And then, with a strained smile, she extricated herself and took her leave.

Miss Gibbs sank heavily onto the nearest sofa, looking ill. I felt rather ill myself. It is one thing to read about such depravity, but it is quite another to encounter it firsthand. Now, more than ever, I felt that this man's death was fully deserved. Such a vile person should not be allowed to go unpunished.

Seating himself beside Miss Gibbs, Poirot placed a hand on her shoulder. " _Je_ _suis très désolé_ , Mademoiselle," he said in a low voice. "I see now that I should not have brought you on this case. Hastings, he is accustomed to such unpleasantness, but you should not have to be subjected to it."

She shook her head. "It's all right, Monsieur Poirot," she replied. "I'm not ignorant of the evil that goes on in the world." Her expression darkened. "The wickedness of which mankind is capable."

"Perhaps I should take Miss Gibbs back to London, Poirot," I told my friend.

"No." Miss Gibbs's tone was firm. "Thank you, Captain Hastings, but I'm fine. I'd like to see this through."

Poirot gave her a searching glance. "Are you certain?"

She returned his gaze steadily. "Yes."

Slowly, he nodded. " _D'accord_ ," he murmured.

He rose to his feet and began pacing the room. "This changes everything, _mes amis_ ," he said. "Now I understand the behaviour of Mademoiselle Ruth Ainsley."

"Ruth?" I repeated. "What do you mean?"

"Her behaviour did not strike you as unusual, Hastings?"

I considered his question, trying to remember the young woman's manner when Poirot had interviewed her. "She seemed nervous," I said. "But I daresay that's only natural. Not only was she questioned by the police, but by a group of complete strangers, as well."

"It was more than that, Captain," Miss Gibbs said quietly. "She wasn't just nervous. She was terrified."

I sighed. A heavy, sick sensation had settled in my stomach. "Japp did say that he suspected her of knowing more than she was telling," I recalled. "I suppose we'd better talk to her again. God, I hope it doesn't get any worse."

We found Ruth Ainsley in her room, tucked away at the end of a corridor on the second floor. She appeared more frightened than ever. Very delicately, Poirot asked her if she knew of the arrangement between her father and Beatrice. But for once, my friend's gentle, solicitous ways had no effect. She simply shook her pale blonde head and continued to deny any knowledge of anything.

I could sense Poirot's frustration. He was clearly intent on finding out the truth of this awful business, but he did not want to press the poor girl too far. He was about to leave when Miss Gibbs stepped forward. "Miss Ainsley," she said with a disarming smile, "might we talk for a bit? Just the two of us?"

Ruth's dark eyes darted back and forth between Poirot and me. "All right," she said cautiously.

Miss Gibbs shot a reassuring glance at Poirot, who nodded. Together, we left Ruth's room and waited outside in the hall. I desperately wanted to know what they were discussing. And then I decided, with equal fervor, that I did not want to find out.

After what seemed a long while, the door opened again, and Miss Gibbs beckoned us inside. Her face was pale and grave.

We stepped into the room, and I watched as Miss Gibbs sat beside the young woman on the bed. "Ruth, will you please tell my friends what you told me?"

Ruth swallowed and nodded, her gaze fixed on her hands, which were clenched in her lap. "I knew what my father was doing," she said, her voice small and faint. "Nobody else suspected a thing, but I knew. I knew, because... he used to do the same things to me."

A silence settled over all of us. At last Poirot let out a slow, uneven breath. " _Pauvre petite_ ," he whispered.

The girl did not seem to hear him. "I tried to tell my mother when it started, but she told me not to tell anyone. She said that I would disgrace the family. And he tried to convince me that... that it was all right. But deep down, I knew it was wrong." A shiver passed through her slight frame. "Still, I put up with it, until... he got tired of me, I suppose. But then he started watching my niece. And I couldn't... let her go through what I went through. Not Bebe."

Poirot came forward, but he was careful not to get too close. "And so, when you saw your father standing on the balcony...?" 

She suddenly looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear. "I didn't push him, Monsieur Poirot," she said earnestly. "That I swear to you. I never touched him. I went to his room that night, and... God, I was like a Fury. I just let him have it. All the hatred — the _burning hatred_ I've held inside for years — it all just came pouring out of me. It was almost like someone else was speaking, but... it felt incredible. I was finally coming _alive_. From the look on his face, I could tell that he couldn't believe it, either."

Her shoulders began to shake, and I felt a welling of rage toward the man who had done this to her. "He stumbled, tripped over his own feet, and he tried to grab hold of me to steady himself, but... I stepped backward. I didn't even think about it. It was instinctive. And then he fell. He fell, and I — I let him. I could have saved him, but I... I didn't want to. I _wanted_ him to die."

Big tears fell from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. "Oh, God, Monsieur Poirot," she whispered. "I'm going to hang, aren't I? If I testify... everything will come out. Everyone will know. And no one will believe that I didn't push him." 

Cautiously, as if approaching a wild animal, Poirot closed the distance between them and laid his hand on hers. " _Courage_ , Mademoiselle Ruth," he murmured. "All will be well."

Poirot, Miss Gibbs, and I left the poor girl for the time being and returned to the hallway. For a long moment, none of us spoke. Finally Miss Gibbs addressed my friend in a low voice. "Monsieur Poirot... What are you going to do?" 

He sighed. "Come, _mes amis_ ," he said softly. "Let us walk in the sunshine for a while. _Cette maison est un mausolée_." 

We descended the stairs and went out to the garden behind the house. The sun was shining, but it could not quite dispel the chill that had settled in my bones. A thought occurred to me, and I turned toward Miss Gibbs, who was walking slowly, her arms crossed over her chest.

"What did you say to Ruth," I asked her, "to get her to talk?"

Poirot shot me a warning look. "Hastings—" he began.

"I told her I knew what it was like to live with a monster," she said shortly.

I didn't know what to say to this.

"You see, Captain," she went on, "my stepfather killed my mother when I was a child. I have no proof, but I know he did. He used to beat her, almost every day. The one time I tried to protect her, he threw me against a wall. After that, my mother made me promise not to intervene."

" _Diable_ ," Poirot whispered to himself, shaking his head in disgust.

"I used to ask her why she didn't tell the police," she said quietly. "But she was afraid that they wouldn't believe her. Or worse, that he would retaliate by killing us both. So we stayed silent. Then, when I was eleven years old, she died. The doctor said it was a brain aneurysm, but I knew exactly what had caused it. She'd taken too many blows to the head."

She cleared her throat. "Anyway, I told Ruth that... that my stepfather got away with it because nobody ever spoke up. And if nobody spoke up about her father, then it would be like he won. And that wasn't fair to Beatrice, or to her."

Suddenly I felt guilty for asking. I also felt a sense of shame over my initial impressions of Margaret Gibbs. I had thought her an aloof, unemotional woman, but in reality she had endured an unspeakable tragedy. She was not unfeeling. She was a pillar of strength.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Gibbs," I said, a little hoarsely. "I shouldn't have asked."

She smiled. It was a heartbreaking smile. "You remember what I told Chief Inspector Japp? It does no good to sweep these things under the rug. We _need_ to talk about them. It's the only way anything will change."

"Amen," Poirot murmured.

I took a deep breath. "God. What a terrible business. It makes me sick to think of it." 

"And yet we must, Hastings," Poirot reminded me. 

"Poor, poor Ruth," said Miss Gibbs. "What will happen to her?" 

Poirot inclined his head. " _Eh bien_ , if there is an inquiry, the case against her, it is strong." 

Miss Gibbs stopped abruptly in her tracks. "Surely, under the circumstances, there doesn't need to be an inquiry," she argued. "Ruth didn't actually push him. She just... didn't save him." 

"But it will not look that way to a jury," he said grimly.

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. "Dash it, Poirot, she's not a murderer," I exclaimed. "She's a victim. That vile old man abused her for years. You only have to look at the poor girl to know that she's been through Hell and back. Don't you believe her?" 

My friend nodded. " _Oui_ , I believe what I see with my eyes. I have seen the signs of abuse in its many forms. The wild, distrusting eyes, the fingernails bitten down to the, how do you say, the quick. The shame, the self-loathing, the terror like the hunted animal. They are all here in Mademoiselle Ruth. She is the bruised reed, the smoldering wick. She has almost given up. But there is fire in her still." 

"But without physical evidence," said Miss Gibbs, "there's only the word of Ruth and Beatrice. And I doubt Beatrice would admit in court to accepting money from her grandfather in exchange for..." 

Poirot shook his head sadly. " _Non_. Little Beatrice will not speak. And Ruth stood to gain a great deal of money upon her father's death. To a jury, that will appear to be the most obvious motive." 

Miss Gibbs's hands clenched at her sides, her knuckles turning white. "It's not right," she burst out, her voice shaking with anger. "Damn it, it's not _right_."

With a lightning-quick movement, her foot shot out and kicked over a potted plant which stood nearby. Startled, I could only watch as she stormed off, limping slightly.

"Miss Gibbs!" I called after her, but Poirot stayed me with a hand on my arm.

"Let her go, _mon ami_ ," he said quietly. "Let her be." 

I turned to him in frustration. "She's right, you know," I told him. "To let Ruth pay for what her father did to her, to Beatrice... It would be an injustice." 

Poirot squeezed his eyes shut. "I must think," he said, almost desperately. "Yes, I must think."

I left him to think, and after what seemed a sufficient amount of time, I went in search of Miss Gibbs. I found her seated on a stone bench near a little pond, staring out over the water. Unsure what to say, I spoke rather inanely.

"How's the foot?" 

"Hurts like the devil," she replied in a flat tone. "Where's Monsieur Poirot?" 

I sighed and kicked at a tuft of grass. "Thinking." 

Her eyebrows drew together in a frown. "What's there to think about?" she grumbled. Then she looked up at me through narrowed eyes. "Are you _really_ used to this, Captain?"

"I..." I thought for a moment. Then I shook my head. "No, I can't say I am," I admitted. "I daresay it's my upbringing. I was raised with all the proper English values. Even after everything I saw as a soldier... everything I've seen during my time with Poirot... I still find myself shocked by the wickedness in the world. I suppose the day I _stop_ being shocked is the day I should really worry." 

Miss Gibbs barely seemed to have heard me. "Ruth can't die for this," she said, almost to herself. "She just can't." 

Taking pity on her, I patted her shoulder in a comforting fashion — purely a platonic gesture, my dear Bella. "Don't worry, Miss Gibbs," I assured her. "Poirot always does the right thing." 

Shortly, Poirot came over to join us. "Come, my friends," he said. "There is nothing more to be done here. Let us return to London."

He set off briskly across the lawn in the direction of the house. Baffled, Miss Gibbs and I followed. Once inside, my friend begged the butler for use of the telephone. He rang up Scotland Yard and asked for Chief Inspector Japp. And then my heart swelled with affection for the little man as he informed Japp that he had made a thorough investigation, and had come to the conclusion that the death of Alexander Ainsley was an accident, the result of intoxication. There was no evidence to suggest foul play.

"You are most welcome," he said into the telephone. "I am glad to have been of assistance. _Au revoir._ " He hung up the instrument and turned to us. "Already this house seems a little more cheerful, do you not think?"

Miss Gibbs looked as if she wanted to say something, but she hesitated. Poirot merely smiled. "We must tell Mademoiselle Ruth the good news," he said gently.

She nodded, her eyes welling with tears.

Ruth rose quickly to her feet as we entered her room. "Monsieur Poirot?" she said expectantly.

"Do not fear, Mademoiselle," he soothed. "You are free." 

"But the police—" she protested.

"I am not the police." 

She swallowed, staring at my friend in disbelief. "I don't know what to say," she murmured thickly.

Poirot pressed her hand. "Say nothing. Only be happy." 

She choked back a sob. "Thank you. All of you." 

I confess I became a little emotional as Miss Gibbs came forward and drew the girl into an embrace. After a moment, she pulled away and kissed her cheek. "You'll be all right," she told her. "I promise."

Ruth smiled for the first time, and it was a beautiful sight.

The local constable drove us to the train station, obviously disappointed at his time having been wasted. We spent most of the train ride back to London in silence. Indeed, conversation at that point would have seemed inappropriate, somehow. It was simply that too much had happened.

It was evening when we arrived in the city. Poirot and I walked Miss Gibbs from the station to her lodging house, a rather shabby old Tudor building in Lambeth. She seemed embarrassed by its appearance, but we pretended not to notice. 

We paused on the front steps, and Poirot turned to her. "Mademoiselle Gibbs, I thank you," he said.

"Whatever for, Monsieur?" she asked, confused. 

"You were of great assistance to me today." 

She huffed a noiseless laugh. "I don't think I was especially helpful," she replied bitterly. "Unless you count throwing tantrums and vandalising the garden." 

" _Pas du tout_ , Mademoiselle," he told her. "You persuaded Ruth Ainsley to talk, after my own efforts were unsuccessful. And you were very kind and comforting to her." 

Miss Gibbs shrugged, seemingly reluctant to accept the compliment. "Well. I tried." She blew out a breath. "Anyway, I don't really want to talk about it." 

"Will you be all right, Miss Gibbs?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," she said, a little shakily. "I just need to... go up to my room and have a bit of a cry. I'll be right as rain in the morning." 

Poirot looked pained. " _Je suis désolé_ ," he murmured.

She shook her head. "No, no, Monsieur," she said with sudden feeling. "Don't be sorry. You were wonderful."

After a second or two, she cleared her throat and gave us a smile which didn't reach her eyes. "Good night, gentlemen." 

"Good night, Miss Gibbs," I answered, feeling strangely inadequate.

Poirot took her hand and raised it briefly to his lips. " _Fait de beaux rêves_ ," he said softly.

I heard Miss Gibbs snort as she turned to leave. "Not bloody likely," she whispered under her breath.

I watched her climb the steps and disappear into the house, shutting the door behind her. I turned to Poirot, and was taken aback by the sorrow on his face. "I fear we will not see her again, _mon ami_ ," he said sadly.

I felt a pang at his words. But I was forced to acknowledge that he was probably right. It had been an emotionally exhausting day for all of us, and for Margaret Gibbs in particular. I would not be surprised if she decided she'd had her fill of crime. In fact, I would not blame her in the least.

However, the next morning, at her usual time, the doorbell rang, and the woman entered with a bright smile. 

"Miss Gibbs!" I blurted, somewhat stupidly. "You're here!" 

She gave me a rather puzzled look. "Of course, Captain. Should I not be?" Her eyebrows rose. "Oh, dear. Is this the wrong day?" 

"Er, no, no..." 

At that moment Poirot came forward and almost shoved me aside in order to greet his assistant. "Mademoiselle Marguerite, I am overjoyed to see you," he said warmly. "Please to come inside." 

He took her coat and ushered her into the sitting room. Guiding her to her usual chair, he poured out a coffee and added a splash of cream — precisely the way she always took it. She seemed simultaneously surprised and amused; he was behaving even more chivalrously than usual. 

"To what do I owe this excessive display of solicitude, Monsieur?" she asked with a smile as she took the coffee from his grasp.

Poirot waved off her question with a light chuckle and steered the conversation to other matters. But as I watched him, noting how unusually happy he appeared, I suddenly knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the reason for his strange mood. Do you know, Bella, I think it was the first time in his life that Hercule Poirot was actually _pleased_ to be wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to go with 'Bella' as the name of Hastings's wife. In the book _Murder on the Links_ , her name is Dulcie, while her sister's name is Bella, but Hastings only refers to her as 'Cinderella', which is a bit silly. And Agatha Christie accidentally calls her 'Bella' in another novel, so... to make things less confusing for fans of the TV series, she'll just be Bella.
> 
> I’m almost afraid to ask what you thought of this latest chapter. lol Let me know in the comments.


	4. A Minor Inconvenience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, sorry for the delay. Depression is not fun. I should have known that writing would make me feel better, but alas, we don't always do what's good for us. Please enjoy!

When I was fourteen years old, I borrowed a copy of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle from one of my schoolmates, and it only took one night of nonstop reading to ignite what would prove to be a lifelong obsession. I read every Holmes story I could get my hands on, and when I'd read them all, I went back and read them all again. It wasn't just the elaborate mysteries which fascinated me, although that was certainly part of the appeal. It was the character of Holmes himself. Of course, Doyle's detective was a genius; that went without saying. But he was also so outrageously sure of himself. He knew he was brilliant, and he refused to apologize for it. He could not care less what people thought of him, and he had no need to prove himself to anyone. As a self-conscious adolescent, I was in awe. I always wished I possessed that kind of effortless confidence.

It was the same, I realized quickly, with Hercule Poirot. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that he was the greatest detective in the world, and to be fair, he probably was. Much to the consternation of those around him, he was not humble about it, either. He was simply the best, and to pretend to any false modesty would have been, in his opinion, dishonest. What was more, he didn't seem to care if others thought him arrogant or conceited. In fact, he preferred for people to see him as simply a vain and foppish, but ultimately harmless little foreigner. If they knew how formidable he truly was, they might guard what they said around him.

The fact was that, vain or not, he was the best employer I had ever had — even if he _was_ the reason I had to start carrying an extra pair of stockings around with me. Even more so than when I'd been Mrs. Wainwright's secretary, I found myself looking forward to going to work every morning. Of course, the work itself was rather grim, and M. Poirot addressed the problem of crime with brutal honesty, but he always managed to make the subject interesting, rather than depressing. I believe I learned more about the criminal mind within my first week of working for M. Poirot than in the last five years with my previous employer.

It had been nearly a month since the unfortunate business with the Ainsley case, but I still thought about the kindness M. Poirot had shown to young Ruth Ainsley. He could have easily passed on the information she had given him to the authorities; most police officers would have. He himself, I knew, had been a prominent member of the Belgian police force in his younger years. But he had withheld evidence in order to save an innocent life. I would never forget that.

For M. Poirot's part, I think he liked me. He seemed to appreciate my assistance, at any rate. Though he did not invite me to accompany him on any more of his cases — I suspected that he felt he had inadvertently traumatized me for life — he often discussed them with me, and showed interest in my input. He was always inviting me to stay for lunch, as well, particularly after Captain Hastings returned to South America. It occurred to me that he probably missed the company of his old friend, and I could not blame him; I understood loneliness all too well. Still, I politely declined the invitations more often than not. He was already paying me very handsomely for my work, and I did not wish to impose on his kindness any more than I already had. Above all else, I prided myself on my professionalism.

Another quality which I always strove to maintain was my reliability. I never missed a day of work if I could help it, and I could count on one hand the number of times I had called in sick in my entire life. It was with intense displeasure, therefore, that I awoke early one warm, sunny Friday morning in May with the sensation of being kicked in the stomach by a Clydesdale. One of the unfortunate side effects of being a member of the female sex was that once a month, my own body tried its very best to kill me. Most of the time, the nausea, the physical exhaustion, and the pain in my abdomen and lower back were more or less manageable. But perhaps one out of every five or six months, the symptoms were almost unbearable. This, it would seem, was to be one of those months.

I tried to sit up, and found it an insurmountable task. Instead, I rolled awkwardly out of bed and onto my hands and knees, like an ungainly cat. Slowly and shakily, I got to my feet. Immediately I was hit by a wave of dizziness. Staggering to my vanity table, I sat down and began removing the pins from my curls and brushing out my hair. My head was pounding, I could barely focus, and I felt as if I might vomit.

This, I decided, was not good.

How could I tell M. Poirot that I was too ill to come to work? We had just started a fascinating new chapter on the subject of poverty and how it impacted crime. If I was not there to assist him, he would no doubt be inconvenienced and irritated by the delay. And hadn't I given him my word that I would not let him down? There was no way I could disappoint him, no matter how I felt.

There was nothing else for it. I would simply have to summon every last drop of English blood in me and push through the pain with a stiff upper lip. Mustn't grumble, and all that rot.

Mustering all my strength, I dressed and applied my customary minimal amount of makeup. I then lurched down the hallway to the washroom, poured myself a large glass of water, and sipped it in small increments. When I finished, I found that I felt marginally better. My stomach, however, was still too unsettled for me to eat anything. With a sigh of resignation, I picked up my Stenotype machine, along with the pages I had typed the previous afternoon, and placed them in my attaché case. With great care, I made my way downstairs on unsteady legs.

On the tube ride to Smithfield, I sat in silent agony, acutely aware of the stares of my fellow passengers, who were no doubt wondering why I winced at the slightest jostle of the train. I got off at the Aldersgate and Barbican Station, rounded the corner, and arrived at Whitehaven Mansions, where I paused as another surge of vertigo hit me. I would have to be careful, I told myself, not to look out the windows in M. Poirot's apartment.

The lift operator conveyed me to the fifth floor of the building, while I tried my best to ignore my nausea, which was exacerbated by the swaying of the machine. By the time I reached the door of 56B, I had to lean against the wall for several minutes to regain my composure. Thankfully, I was slightly early.

At last, when I felt reasonably certain I was in no danger of fainting, I took a deep breath and rang the bell. The door was opened by Miss Lemon, who took one glance at me and knew in an instant that something was wrong.

"Miss Gibbs, you're not looking at all the thing," she said in alarm. "Are you all right?"

I waved off her concern. "I'm fine, Miss Lemon," I assured her, taking off my hat and placing it on the hall table. "It's just a touch of..." I struggled to think of a delicate way to describe such a nightmarish affliction. "...Monthly discomfort," I finished lamely.

At once Miss Lemon understood, as I knew she would. "Oh," she said in a hushed voice. "Oh, yes, of course."

"Please don't say anything to Monsieur Poirot," I hastened to add. "It's not... pleasant to discuss such things."

"My lips are sealed, Miss Gibbs," she replied, patting my arm in sympathy. "You go on into the sitting room. I'll bring in some chamomile in a moment."

I thanked her and shuffled down the hall to M. Poirot's office, where my employer was seated at his desk in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, reading his correspondence. He wished me a good morning with his usual cheer, which I tried my best to reciprocate.

To say that I sat down would be a misrepresentation of events; it would be more accurate to say that I fell into my customary chair with all the grace of a reversing lorry. Unsurprisingly, this did not go unnoticed by the world's greatest detective.

"Mademoiselle Gibbs?" he inquired.

"Monsieur?" I answered automatically.

He rose and circled his desk, examining me more closely and no doubt taking in my hunched posture and pinched face. "You are distressingly pale," he observed. "Are you ill?"

I shook my head. "It's nothing, Monsieur," I lied, opening my attaché case and placing my Stenotype in my lap. "Just a little indigestion, that's all. Hardly even worth mentioning."

He narrowed his eyes at me, and it was all I could do not to squirm under the scrutiny of his sharp gaze. "You are certain you are all right? I would not wish you to exert yourself if you were unwell."

"I'm fine, Monsieur Poirot," I insisted firmly. "Now, what's on the agenda for today?"

The Belgian subjected me to another long, critical look. Then he turned toward his desk and plucked up a small slip of paper between his fingers. "I require these books for my research," he told me. "I would like you to go to the library at the British Museum and retrieve them for me, _s'il vous plait_."

I took the paper from his hand, reading the list of titles written in his characteristically neat, fussy handwriting. There were half a dozen in total, dating from the early nineteenth century up to the present, all relating to sociology and psychology. Normally, the Reading Room at the British Museum did not allow its items to be removed from the premises, but M. Poirot had a special arrangement with the institution — evidently in return for services rendered in the past. As his representative, I was authorized to borrow books on his behalf; indeed, I had already done so twice.

I looked up to find M. Poirot watching me carefully. "If you are unable, I can of course send Miss Lemon instead," he added in a neutral tone.

"And leave her station unmanned? Not a bit of it." Setting my Stenotype machine aside, I stood up, blinking as stars danced in my peripheral vision. Despite my condition, I was determined to complete this task, to prove that I was a dedicated and capable assistant. I could rest all I wanted, as soon as I got home.

A sudden wave of pain almost caused me to double over. I felt M. Poirot take my elbow. "Mademoiselle—" he began.

I straightened and somehow mustered a smile. "Just the books, then, Monsieur?" I asked calmly. "Nothing else I can pick up while I'm out?"

Slowly, his hand fell away, and he sighed. " _Non, merci,_ " he said, his voice tinged with a sadness I did not understand. "Miss Lemon will provide you with money for the taxi."

I nodded. "Right. Won't be long."

I left the sitting room, eager to escape my employer's unsettling green eyes, and went in search of his regular secretary. I found her in the kitchen, pouring steaming water into a teapot. "Just the one tisane, Miss Lemon," I told her. "I'm off to the British Museum."

"More research, is it?" She set down the kettle. I followed her to her office, where she opened her desk drawer and pulled out a handful of shillings — more than sufficient cab fare for a trip to Bloomsbury and back. "Are you sure you're up to it, dear?" she asked, handing me the coins.

"Of course," I insisted. "I'll be right back."

With a wave, I took up my hat, placed it on my head, and walked out the door. In the hallway, I willed myself to take deep, even breaths until the pain had lessened enough for me to continue. Then, with renewed resolve, I was on my way.

There were plenty of cabs on the road on that fine spring morning, but they all seemed to be engaged, and I stood for a long time on the sidewalk until a taxi finally answered my hails. On the way to the museum, I took the opportunity to lie back in the vehicle and close my eyes. I quickly realized that this was a mistake, and spent the rest of the journey in fighting the urge to dry heave.

The cab ride was mercifully short, and I was all too glad to pay my driver for depositing on Great Russell Street, right outside the grand entrance to the British Museum. I walked up the stone steps and into the vast, echoing halls, feeling a genuine smile spread over my face. In spite of my less than ideal circumstances, it was a joy, as always, to step inside the Reading Room: an enormous round structure modeled after the Pantheon in Rome, complete with an oculus in the center of its domed ceiling. Its curved walls were lined with iron bookshelves, which were stacked three storeys high. Forty kilometres of shelves, to be precise. And this was only one of many libraries inside the museum's sprawling premises. Together, they comprised the largest library in the world, after the National Library of Paris.

And I was looking for six books, in particular.

This was going to take a while.

* * *

Hercule Poirot was not happy. He prowled his apartment like a restless caged animal, sitting down for a minute or two and then standing again, taking books from his shelves and quickly replacing them. He straightened items on his mantelpiece which did not need to be straightened. Worst of all, he had forgotten about his tisane and allowed it to grow cold. Now it was undrinkable.

Until now, he had never had a reason to be displeased with his amanuensis, Margaret Gibbs. She was punctual, hard-working, and always neatly — if rather plainly — dressed. She possessed many qualities which he admired: intelligence, patience, compassion, and an organized, methodical mind. He especially appreciated how understanding she was of his habits. Many of his previous secretaries had been visibly annoyed with his insistence on tidiness and symmetry, his high standards regarding food, and even his pride in his personal appearance. It was one of the reasons why he had never married; he knew instinctively that no woman could ever put up with his peculiarities, and he was too old and too set in his ways to change. It was sad, but it could not be helped.

To her credit, though, Miss Gibbs was more tolerant of his quirks than most. She did not seem to mind when he politely asked her to readjust her collar or smooth a wrinkle in her skirt. She had even taken some of his sartorial advice to heart. For instance, he had gently suggested once that a touch of color added to her wardrobe might suit her well, and the next day, she arrived in his office wearing a coral red blouse under her ubiquitous grey jacket, with red lips to match. She had looked unexpectedly lovely.

As yet, she still insisted on parting her hair on one side, rather than in the middle. That was rather a pity. Then again, no one was perfect.

On the whole, however, Poirot did not regret hiring Miss Gibbs. Above all else, she was very good at her job. Not only did she have an excellent grasp of language, but she also had a knack for rearranging his words in a way that made them more compelling. He had little doubt that his book would be an unqualified success, thanks in no small part to her assistance. 

Which was why her betrayal cut him so deeply.

Poirot did not like being lied to under any circumstances. Unfortunately, in his line of work, it was more or less inevitable. People lied about so many things: where they were, who they were with, what they were doing at what time. Even innocent people lied, about the most trivial matters. He had grown accustomed to this, and had become adept to seeing through most attempts at deception. It was disheartening, but he told himself that it was only human nature. What bothered him the most was being lied to by his friends.

And Margaret Gibbs had lied to him. He had known immediately that she was ill when she had walked into his office that morning, her features etched in pain, her freckles standing out starkly against her pale face. And yet when asked about her health, she had firmly insisted that she was fine. He had even given her several chances to tell the truth, but she responded to each of his inquiries with bare-faced lies.

Why? Had she forgotten who he was? Did she not know that it was impossible to deceive Hercule Poirot? And why would she lie about such a thing in the first place? What was so terrible about admitting that she was ill?

He expelled an irritated breath through his nose. The whole thing was maddening, idiotic. But more than that, it was insulting. He had invited this woman into his home, into his trusted circle. And this was how she repaid him?

He ceased pacing and stood at the long, curved bank of windows overlooking Sandhurst Square, his hands clasped behind his back. Heedful of his foul mood, Miss Lemon crept softly into the sitting room and retrieved his untouched glass of chamomile. "Would you like another tisane, Mr. Poirot?" she asked.

" _Non,_ " was his curt reply. Then he sighed, regretting his rudeness. "That is to say, no, thank you, Miss Lemon. Do I have any appointments this afternoon?"

"Just the one," she answered. "That gentleman who called yesterday about his missing chauffeur."

"Cancel it."

Miss Lemon frowned. "Cancel?" she repeated in surprise. "But—"

"If you please, Miss Lemon," he said firmly.

She hesitated briefly. "Yes, Mr. Poirot," she said.

As she turned to leave his office, Poirot spoke again, the words leaving his lips of their own accord: "She has been gone too long."

Miss Lemon paused in the doorway, considering her response. "Not so very long," she said after a moment. "You _did_ send her to the British Library, after all. That place is an endless labyrinth of books. I shouldn't wonder it's taking a while for her to find the ones you requested."

Her comment did little to reassure Poirot. "I should not have let her go. It was obvious to the most unobservant imbecile that something was not right." He gave an eloquent shrug. " _Mais que puis-je faire?_ She insists that all is well. I cannot contradict her. And so I must let her go."

He sighed and turned to his secretary. "Did she say anything to you, Miss Lemon?"

The woman glanced away for a second. Not long, but long enough.

Slowly, he nodded. "I see," he said in a low, even voice. " _Alors_ , you also seek to deceive Poirot?"

Miss Lemon pursed her lips. "It's not for me to say," she replied, always the soul of discretion.

"I do not enjoy being kept in the dark, Miss Lemon," he told her severely.

She raised her eyebrows significantly. "Now you know how the rest of the world feels," she murmured, before pivoting on her heel and striding from the room.

Shaking his head to himself, Poirot turned his attention back to the window and resumed his vigil. He had a fairly good idea of what was ailing Miss Gibbs, and the fact that she would try to conceal it from him was perhaps less than surprising. Nevertheless, it saddened him. He had hoped that by now, she would have known that she could trust him with the truth. She certainly had no reason to worry that he would punish her for it.

As a lifelong student of psychology, he found himself curious to know what was behind this stubbornness of hers. It was true that she had had an evidently difficult childhood, and a stepfather who was abusive. Could that account for it? Possibly. But he suspected that there was something else. What had she been through in the past, he wondered, that would make her so fearful of showing any sign of weakness?

He continued to stand there, lost in thought, until at last a shiny black taxi pulled up to the entrance of Whitehaven Mansions, and the familiar figure of his intractable writing assistant climbed out, carrying a stack of books. Finally, she had returned.

Poirot burst into sudden, frenetic activity. Shrugging on his jacket, he rushed from the room and into the hall, snatching up his hat, cane, and pocketbook. Hearing the commotion, Miss Lemon emerged from her little office, the picture of confusion.

"Mr. Poirot?" she inquired. "You're not going out? What shall I tell Miss Gibbs when she returns?"

"Mademoiselle Gibbs has returned," he said shortly. "I am taking her to her lodgings. It is the only way I can ensure that she will do as she is told." And with that he was out the door.

He intercepted his quarry in the lobby, waiting for the lift. She was even paler than she had been earlier, and she seemed unsteady on her feet, as if a slight push would be all that was needed to knock her over.

She was also visibly taken aback to see him. "Monsieur Poirot," she said, "is something the matter?"

"Mademoiselle Gibbs," he said without preamble, stepping out of the lift, "why did you not tell to me at once that you were ill?"

Her eyes darted to the lift operator and back to the detective. "I'm not—"

" _Ça suffit!_ " he burst out, tired of her prevaricating. "No more lies! Give to me the books."

Bewildered, Miss Gibbs held out the stack of tomes, which he tucked under his arm. "You are going home," he continued, taking her by the elbow. "And I am going with you."

She shook her head, stubborn to the last. "That's not necessary, Monsieur. All I need is a glass of water and a couple of aspirin."

" _Mon Dieu._ " Poirot felt an urge to tear out what remained of his hair. "Never will I understand the obstinacy of Americans. You live in eternal denial of your own bodies' limitations. _Vous êtes impossible._ "

As he steered her toward the double doors which gave onto the square, Miss Gibbs attempted to make one last plea. "At least let me get my case and my Stenotype."

"You may return for them when you are well. _Viens._ "

Heedless of her increasingly feeble protests, he led her outside and hailed a cab. To his great relief, the same vehicle she had hired earlier was still parked at the curb, its driver having paused to smoke a cigarette.

The man looked up as they approached. "Hullo again," he said with some surprise. "Forget something, Miss?"

Poirot took it upon himself to answer. "Driver, please to take us to number nine, Black Prince Road, _tout de suite_."

To Poirot's intense displeasure, the cabbie dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out on the ground under his shoe. "Right ho."

Once inside the taxi, Miss Gibbs seemed to lose all her defiance. She slumped back in the seat, her eyes tightly shut. She was obviously in great pain and looked, frankly, dreadful.

He looked down at the stack of books in his lap. Miss Gibbs had managed to find every single title on his list, even the rare and obscure ones. He really could not have asked for a more dedicated and assiduous amanuensis. All at once, Poirot felt his annoyance fade, replaced by pity and self-rebuke. He should not have lost his temper with her. It was not her fault, after all. She was merely a victim of biology.

Shortly, they arrived at the rather run-down lodgings of his assistant, the Tudor Rose Manor House. After instructing the driver to wait for him, he helped her out of the cab. As he did so, he caught a whiff of her perfume, sweet and floral but not cloying. He found himself wondering what it was.

As he could have expected, the interior of Miss Gibbs's lodging house was dark, stuffy, and crammed with oversized furniture. Everything was a most offensive shade of dusty pink — including the landlady, who appeared from a back room, took one look at him and the unmarried woman on his arm, and promptly flew into hysterics.

"What's the meaning of all this?" she demanded. "Who are you, my good man, and what are you doing with my tenant?"

Poirot summoned all the Gallic charm he could muster. "Allow me to explain, Madame," he said smoothly. "I am Hercule Poirot. I am the employer of Mademoiselle Gibbs. And you are...?"

The woman blinked, clearly thrown by his very polite, very foreign manner. "Dorothy Ellis," she replied guardedly.

"Madame Ellis," he repeated with a decorous bow. "I regret this intrusion, but as you can see, _le pauvre_ Mademoiselle Gibbs is most ill. Have you the... _bouteille d'eau chaude_ , the... How do you call it? The hot water bottle?"

He knew perfectly well what it was called, but he found that appearing to understand less English than he actually did tended to make people more accommodating. As usual, it worked. "Hot water bottle?" the woman echoed, faltering. "Y-yes, yes, of course."

" _Bon._ Would you be so kind as to fetch it, and perhaps a cool cloth, while I assist Mademoiselle Gibbs to her room?"

Still looking somewhat bewildered, the landlady disappeared into the kitchen. At his assistant's direction, he led Miss Gibbs up a steep flight of stairs and to a room at the end of a narrow hallway. To his relief, it was not nearly as hideous as the rest of the house. It was neat and modestly furnished in pleasing colors. There was a bed, a wardrobe, and a vanity table, as well as a desk against the opposite wall, upon which sat a typewriter and a bowl containing a bright orange goldfish. In one corner stood a small bookcase. There were no photographs to be seen.

As a former policeman, Poirot had a bad habit of snooping and was not in the least shy about it. As Miss Gibbs removed her hat and shoes and collapsed rather unceremoniously on her bed, he took the opportunity to inspect her book collection. He was not surprised to see the complete works of Shakespeare and Dickens, as well as a few other titles which any self-respecting product of an English education might possess. But there were also some titles which he would not have expected to see on her shelves: Richard Burton's translation of _One Thousand and One Nights_ , _The Aeneid_ , _The Epic of Gilgamesh_. There were also many books about seafaring, including _Moby-Dick_ , _Captains Courageous_ , and _Two Years Before the Mast_. Evidently, the sea held a particular fascination for his assistant. A pity. Poirot himself loathed travelling by boat.

He heard a groan, and turned to see Miss Gibbs lying on her bed, curled into a ball, her golden brown hair fanned out across her pillow. "I'm sorry, Monsieur Poirot," she said miserably. "I can't tell you how embarrassed I am to have caused so much trouble. I've rather let you down, haven't I?"

Poirot felt a pang at the sight of her. He went to her side and, very lightly, he covered her hand with his. " _Pas du tout_ , Mademoiselle Marguerite," he said gently. "Do not berate yourself. Poirot asked too much of you. I should never have sent you on an errand for me. It was obvious to me that you were not well." He sighed. "I do not envy you the pain that you endure simply for being a woman. It seems most unfair, _n'est-ce pas?_ "

Miss Gibbs looked up at him with wide eyes. "How did you know?"

He was tempted to reply that he knew everything, but he resisted the impulse. "My sister suffered from the same affliction," he said instead. "At times, the pain, it was so great that she would lose consciousness."

Her blue-green eyes grew even bigger at this. "You have a sister?" she asked curiously.

Poirot simply smiled and released her hand.

He watched as she swallowed and looked away. "I still feel like a fool," she admitted in a low voice. "But I'm grateful to you for your patience and understanding. You're very kind, Monsieur Poirot."

"Not at all," he told her.

At that moment, the landlady appeared in the open doorway, holding the items he had requested. "Ah, thank you most kindly, Madame Ellis," he exclaimed, taking them from her. With great care, he laid the damp cloth on Miss Gibbs's forehead. Then he handed her the hot water bottle, which she accepted with a murmur of thanks and placed on her stomach.

At last he turned to Mrs. Ellis. "My taxi is waiting, and so with your permission, I will entrust the care of Mademoiselle Gibbs to you. Please to make sure that she does not exert herself until she is recovered."

"Yes, Mr., erm... Mr. Poy-roh," she replied, hopelessly mangling his surname.

He gave Miss Gibbs one last smile, which she returned weakly. "Rest now, Mademoiselle," he murmured. "And return to work only when you are well again. _Comprenez?_ "

She nodded sheepishly. " _Je comprends._ Thank you, Monsieur."

" _De rien._ "

He thanked the landlady once again and left the room. On his way out, however, he happened to notice a bottle of perfume on his assistant's vanity table, nearly empty. It was Lily of the Valley, by Floris of London.

Poirot smiled to himself. One mystery solved.

* * *

I would dearly love to be able to say that I spent the remainder of that afternoon in quiet, appreciative contemplation of the kindness of my employer. However, I'm rather embarrassed to admit that after my sojourn to the British Museum, I recall very little of that day. I remember M. Poirot intercepting me in the lobby of his building, escorting me home, and tending to me in his solicitous way, but the rest is a bit of a blur. I have a vague recollection of Mrs. Ellis checking in on me from time to time, replacing the water in my hot water bottle, and giving me aspirin, which my fractious stomach promptly rejected. But other than that, I spent most of the time either sleeping or writhing in agony. That is, when I was not cursing my misfortune in having been born a woman.

It was not until the next morning — thankfully a Saturday — that I began to feel less like I was on my deathbed. My head was sore, my mouth dry, and my stomach still a little unsettled, but the pain was much less severe than the day before. Thank heaven for small mercies.

After a scalding hot bath, I tried to read for a bit, but I found myself unable to concentrate. Although M. Poirot had assured me that I could go back to work when I was better, I still felt inexplicably anxious about facing him again. It was true that he had been very sympathetic and understanding of my condition; in fact, he was the only employer I'd ever had who had taken the trouble to see me home. I was unaccustomed to being cared for in such a way, and I was unsure how I should respond. The whole thing was just so awkward and humiliating.

_What must he think of me?_ I wondered.

As I sat there in bed, pointlessly ruminating, I heard a light knock at my door. I looked up, expecting to see Mrs. Ellis. Instead, the door opened to admit Elizabeth Corcoran, one of my fellow lodgers. She was carrying a breakfast tray with a plate of food and a small package. Bessie was several years younger than me, but we had been close friends ever since she moved to the Tudor Rose to escape her somewhat eccentric and overbearing family. One would never know it, given her humble lodgings and modest, retiring habits, but she was actually a talented writer and illustrator of children's books, and quite wealthy in her own right.

"Good morning, Megs," she said in her soft Irish lilt. "How's my favorite invalid? Feeling any better?"

I smiled. "Quite a bit better, thanks."

"Up for a poached egg and some toast?"

My stomach growled as if in answer to her query. I hadn't eaten in over thirty-six hours. "You're a saint, Bessie," I said gratefully.

"No, just named after one, like you," she replied, perching on the edge of my bed and placing the tray on my lap. "You got a bad dose of it yesterday, didn't you?"

I nodded sourly. "Rather worse than usual, I'm afraid," I had to admit. "I hope I didn't worry you."

"Worry? I had to talk Mrs. Ellis out of calling for a doctor." Bessie shook her head, her curly black hair flying everywhere. "Not a damned thing they can do. Give you morphine or opium, I suppose. But I know you like being in control of your faculties."

It was true; I didn't really even enjoy the slight loss of inhibition which accompanied alcohol consumption. A side effect of witnessing what it did to my stepfather, no doubt.

"You did have us worried, though," Bessie went on. "Not just Mrs. Ellis and me. All of the girls. And not just because we knew if you dropped dead, you'd probably haunt us all."

"Of course," I said, taking a bite of dry toast and thinking it was the best thing I'd ever tasted. "An apparition's got to have something to do for fun."

Bessie snorted. I turned my attention to the parcel sitting on the tray, beside my plate of toast and eggs. It was wrapped in glossy white paper and tied with string. "What's this?" I asked.

"Don't know. Came for you this morning." Much like her writing style, Bessie had a habit of speaking in short sentences, succinct and to the point. It was rather refreshing.

Curious, I set the tray aside and picked up the package. I nearly dropped it when I saw who had sent it. "It's from Monsieur Poirot," I said in surprise, taking in the address from Smithfield and the familiar, fanatically tidy penmanship.

"Your detective?" Bessie raised her eyebrows. "Rather bold of him to be sending you care packages in the post. Think he might have a notion toward you?"

I nearly laughed at the suggestion. "No, not at all," I replied. "He's just a very kind person. And no doubt concerned. I'm sure I must have frightened the life out of him yesterday."

"Well, on you get," she urged. "Open it already."

Obediently, I removed the string which held the parcel together and carefully unwrapped the white paper. Normally, I would have simply torn it off, but out of respect for M. Poirot, I refrained from doing so. I opened it to find that it was, indeed, a care package of sorts. There were several sachets of some kind of herbal tea, tied together with a ribbon, a small box of handmade chocolates, and something wrapped in rolls of cotton wool. Tucked between these items was a single sheet of fine, cream-laid stationery paper folded in half.

Touched by the gesture, I unfolded the paper and read the handwritten note aloud for Bessie's benefit.

"' _Ma chére_ Mademoiselle Gibbs,'" I read, resisting the urge to imitate my employer's accent, "'I hope that by the time you receive this package, you are feeling better than when I saw you last. I have enclosed an herbal remedy in the form of a tisane which is guaranteed to improve your health and your spirits. When you prepare it, you must remember to allow it to steep for exactly six minutes, no more and no less.'"

Bessie chuckled. "What'll happen if you don't?" she asked. "Think he'll find out?"

"Knowing Monsieur Poirot, he just might." I smiled and continued reading. "'The chocolates are perhaps less medicinal, but they are nevertheless exquisite. And after all, does one require a reason to eat chocolates?'"

"No, indeed," Bessie said heartily.

"'As for the perfume...'" I stopped, momentarily unable to continue.

_He didn't._

"Yes?"

I cleared my throat and tried again, my heart suddenly racing in my ribcage. "'As for the perfume, I hope you will forgive me for being the snoop, but I noticed that the bottle in your room was nearly empty. And a lady cannot be without her signature scent, is it not so?'"

"Perfume?" Bessie repeated. "What perfume?"

With trembling fingers, I lifted the third object from the package and removed the cotton wool wrapping. Inside was a small blue cardboard box with a gold foil label: Lily of the Valley, by Floris of London.

My hand flew to my mouth as my eyes filled with tears.

"Margaret?" my friend prompted. "What's the matter?"

Shaking my head, I took a deep breath. "Nothing." Continuing on, I quickly finished the letter: "'Please recover quickly. Miss Lemon is desolated without you. Yours, Hercule Poirot.'"

"May I?" Bessie reached out and took the perfume from me, inspecting it. "Holy Mary," she breathed in awe. "This stuff must have cost more than a few shillings. What a dear man your Mr. Poirot is. You sure he doesn't have a glad eye for you, Megs?"

I didn't reply. As a matter of fact, I couldn't reply. There was no way M. Poirot could have known what such a gift would mean to me. And unlike Bessie, I did not think for a moment that he had any sort of tender feelings toward me. He had simply spotted the empty bottle on my vanity table and, in an extraordinarily generous gesture, taken it upon himself to replace it. That was the kind of person Hercule Poirot was.

I read the note again, and a third time. And then, hardly knowing what I was doing, I folded it in half and pressed it to my heart.

I remained in bed for most of the day, only getting up to prepare one of M. Poirot's herbal remedies. I let it steep for exactly six minutes, and inhaled its aroma deeply. It seemed to be composed of chamomile, ginger, cinnamon, and willow bark, as well as a few other ingredients I could not identify. To my surprise, the concoction went far in alleviating my worst symptoms; the ginger helped settle my stomach, and the chamomile and willow bark proved effective in lessening the pain.

The chocolates were nothing less than a godsend.

The next day, I felt much improved, and by Monday, I was more than ready to return to work. It was with a strange mixture of excitement and trepidation that I rode the train to Smithfield, feeling naked without my ubiquitous attaché case, which I had left at my employer's. I also felt more than a little self-conscious in the light blue floral dress I had impulsively decided to put on that morning. By the time I arrived at Whitehaven Mansions, I was afraid I would sweat right through the cotton.

I paused outside the door of 56B for a moment, collecting myself. Then I rang the bell. I expected Miss Lemon to answer, and was surprised when the door was opened by M. Poirot himself.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Marguerite," he exclaimed, beaming under his mustache. "You are looking most charming this morning, and a good deal less pale. I trust you are recovered from your illness?"

I couldn't help but smile in return. "Quite recovered, thank you, Monsieur," I replied.

He stepped back to allow me inside, and closed the door behind me. In the hallway, I paused. I felt I needed to broach the subject of his care package, but I had no idea how to begin. Would he even want me to bring it up? It was so hard to know.

I decided I couldn't stay silent. "Monsieur Poirot," I began.

He turned and looked at me. "Yes?"

Gazing at the little man, impeccably dressed in his grey morning suit and waistcoat, a sprig of lavender in his lapel pin, his black hair neatly brushed and pomaded, I was suddenly overwhelmed — a state which I always tried to avoid if I could. Even in spite of his odd quirks and ridiculous fussiness, he was absurdly endearing. From the moment I met him, I knew I was very fortunate to have him as an employer, but in truth, I hadn't known just how fortunate until now. He really was unlike anyone I had ever known.

Observing my inconvenient display of emotion, M. Poirot came to my side, offering me his handkerchief. "There, there, _chére amie_ ," he said soothingly.

I dabbed at my eyes, mortified. "I'm sorry, Monsieur," I said shakily. "But you have no idea how much that perfume meant to me. You see, it was my mother's favorite perfume. She used to stockpile it, because she was afraid that the company would discontinue the scent. When she died, my stepfather tried to get rid of it all, but I managed to keep a couple of bottles for myself. I knew it couldn't last forever, though, so I used it as sparingly as I could." I swallowed hard. "I... I don't know how to repay you."

M. Poirot smiled gently. "If I may make a small suggestion?"

"Anything," I answered fervently.

He reached out and took my hand, enfolding it in both of his. "Please do not lie to me again," he said, his voice soft and serious. "It is not pleasant, being lied to by a friend. If you are feeling ill, you must tell me. I will understand. But no more putting on of the brave face. Are we agreed?"

I felt my cheeks burn with mortification, but I nodded. "Yes, Monsieur," I said. "I'm sorry, it truly wasn't my intent to deceive you. I suppose I've just become accustomed to downplaying my pain. It's... not something people talk about in polite society."

" _Oui_ , I comprehend. However, there is no need for fear or shame. You are safe with Poirot." He patted my hand briefly before letting it go. " _Et maintenant_ , you must help me with this chapter I am writing. And you must tell me how you enjoyed the chocolates and the tisanes. Did you follow my instructions to the letter, Mademoiselle?"

He bustled off to the sitting room, chattering spiritedly as he went. I followed him, my heart full. "But of course, Monsieur."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I went there. I know it's not a pleasant subject, but debilitating menstrual cramps are a real thing which affect as much as 20% of women. And they can be as painful as childbirth or a heart attack. Poor Margaret is by no means alone.
> 
> Hope you liked the latest chapter, even with the notable absence of Hastings.


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